


According to Plan

by devil_in_kind



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Gen, I'll put most of this in the preface but, Mild Cursing, Mild Gore, Original Character(s), look just read the preface, not really angst, this was written right after Can Lying Be Good so theres a lot of stuff that isn't in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devil_in_kind/pseuds/devil_in_kind
Summary: Unbeknownst to himself, Thomas experiences depressive episodes. The Sides try to keep things under control, but things don't go according to plan.





	1. A Lackluster Introduction to the Focus of the Story

Virgil had seen it coming. The strange feeling in the air, the others acting just a little bit off lately. Maybe it was just because he was fine-tuned into this kind of disturbance, but it wasn’t exactly subtle.

And yet, somehow, he still nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened his door to find Depression on his bed, unannounced.

Virgil clutched his hand over his heart and tried to regulate his breathing.

“Geez, dude.” Virgil combed his hand through his hair. “Maybe a little warning next time?”

Depression hummed in acknowledgement. He must have woken up recently—he wasn’t much for chatter when he was tired (more tired than on average, anyway.)

Virgil sighed and flopped back on his bed. He suddenly felt exhausted, and he knew fully well it was due to the Side next to him. Meanwhile, his own influence on Depression was plain to see—picking at his nails, bouncing his leg, and other general shifting.

“So,” Virgil attempted to start friendly conversation, “What’s got you up?” His heart sank at a sudden thought, “It wasn’t me, was it? Did I wake you up when I tried to quit?”

“Mm.” Depression shook his head. “Only a little. Lots of stuff happening. Mostly Patton.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Guys and Dolls?”

“M-hm.”

That made sense. Patton was arguably the most influential Side—if anybody’s emotional baggage could disrupt Depression from his sleep, it would be Patton’s. Virgil felt relieved, then guilty for feeling relieved.

“Did that trip down memory lane disturb everybody?” Virgil muttered.

Depression looked up sharply.

“Deceit recently resurfaced,” Virgil explained. “He pretended to be Patton for awhile and tried to get Thomas to lie to Joan.”

“Is Patton okay?” Depression asked quietly. His voice was scratchy from lack of use, but it was still contagiously lethargic, like a river in the summer. Virgil felt his tensed muscles relax a fraction.

“Yeah, he’s fine. A little confused, but fine.” Virgil sighed, “You know, sometimes, I wish Patton could stand up for himself more. But he’s just so absurdly empathetic that he hardly thinks about his own needs.”

Depression cracked a smile. Virgil smiled himself, but it faded after a moment.

If Depression were here, it could only mean one thing, and Virgil couldn’t put it off forever.

“It’s time, right?” Virgil met Depression’s eyes. “For another episode.”

Depression sighed deeply. “Yeah,” He finally said.

“Well then, let’s start this off on a relatively good note. Logan?”

“Sure.”

Virgil and Depression clasped each other’s hands, and instantly materialized in Logan’s room. Actually, it was the library, but it might as well be the same thing—he spent as many nights here as he did in his own bed. Currently, Logan was hunched over a desk, papers strewn across the polished wood and spilling onto the floor. He gripped a pen in his hand tightly.

“Deceit,” he was muttering, “_Watching us_.”

Logan hadn’t noticed his visitors yet. And yet, their influences were already manifesting within him—he was beginning to fluctuate between stillness and movement, attentiveness and distraction. Virgil decided to step in before it got out of hand.

Virgil cleared his throat, and Logan uttered a monotone yelp of surprise, scattering even more papers around the already-cluttered workspace. Logan took a moment to compose himself, but the moment evaporated as soon as he laid eyes on Depression.

“You’re awake.” Logan didn’t typically feel emotions strongly enough to show them, but Virgil could see he was struggling to hide discouragement under a cool, collected mask. He briefly wondered if he should tell him he wasn’t fooling anybody. Logan tilted his head towards Virgil,

“Is it time for another episode?”

Virgil nodded.

Not even bothering to hide his exasperation now, Logan put his head in his hands and groaned. Next to Virgil, barely noticeable, Depression frowned. After awhile, Logan stood up straight and rubbed his temples.

“I suppose this was inevitable. I presume I owe you thanks, for coming to perform your job when you were supposed to. Whatever your job is. Assuming you have one.”

Virgil cringed inwardly. Logan was still trying to figure out how to act appropriately (see: not like a complete ass) around others, and while Virgil appreciated his efforts… well, clearly his people skills could still use some work.

“Thanks.” Depression responded dully, though Virgil thought he detected a hint of sarcasm.

“You’re welcome. Now, are we going about this the conventional way?”

Virgil looked at Depression. Depression shrugged.

“I don’t see why not,” Virgil answered.

“Am I the first one you came to?”

Depression nodded. Logan held his head a little higher, looking pleased with himself. “Well, I would be happy to accompany you to Patton’s room, should you come across any opposition.”

Another cringe. Everyone in the room knew the real reason was so he could defend Thomas if anything unpredictable happened. Not that he would be much use against such an emotionally-driven attack anyway. But, to Virgil’s great surprise, Depression spoke up,

“Sure.”

Logan looked pleasantly surprised—an expression that he hid under unfeeling calculation after only a moment. “Then, off we go, I suppose.”

The three of them unanimously decided that it would be better if Patton were warned they were coming beforehand, so Logan left early in order to give Patton the heads-up. Even so, when Virgil and Depression materialized in Patton’s room, Patton stumbled and would have fallen, were Logan not there to help steady him through the abrupt mental imbalance. When Patton looked up, his eyes were bloodshot, but he managed to offer them a warm smile nonetheless. Depression’s expression didn’t change, but Virgil knew he felt bad about causing Patton trouble by the wave of numbness that washed through his own system. Virgil always forgot how strong Depression was, and he was always unpleasantly reminded of it when he came out of his comas for episodes. It wasn’t that Virgil held any sort of grudge against him for the Incident, but you know… forgive, but don’t forget. Better safe than sorry, that’s what Virgil always said.

“Howdy!” Patton waved to Depression, “Good to see you, kiddo! It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Awhile.” Depression echoed in agreement.

“Logan tells me we’re acting again?”

Both Virgil and Depression looked away uncomfortably. Patton nodded, his face drawn in sympathy,

“I know how hard it is for you to pretend to be something you’re not—seeing how potent you both are. If it means anything, I’d like you to know I’m incredibly proud of you for doing as well as you have.”

“Thanks,” Virgil and Depression mumbled in unison, their cheeks coloring the same shade of pale pink.

“Of course, kiddos. Well, I’m caught up to speed, I think. Should we go and see Roman now? Depression, what do you want to do?”

Depression smiled drily, “I don’t _want_ to do anything. I _want_ to lie down on the ground and sleep for another nine months. But yeah, he sounds like a good next step.”

Much to Virgil’s amusement, no one bothered to tell Roman they were coming. When all four of them suddenly appeared in his room without warning, he shrieked and whipped out his sword, tripped over his own feet, fell, and landed on his face. Depression snickered, Logan exhaled a mechanical ‘ha’, and Patton failed to hide a smile behind his hands.

Roman scrambled to his feet, his face burning cherry-red.

“What do you want?” He snapped. Then, he froze as he re-counted heads. He locked his glare on Depression and narrowed his eyes, “What are _you_ doing up?”

Depression raised one eyebrow, studying Roman’s furious gaze. “Is this a trick question?”

“It’s time for another episode,” Patton supplied helpfully.

Roman visibly sagged. “But we were doing so _well_ lately!”

The temperature in the room instantly dropped. Virgil could see his breath in front of him—everybody shivered. Depression's jaw was clenched and he was glaring at the ground, where splinters of ice were forming at his feet.

“Your performances can’t prevent my existence,” He muttered. Logan and Patton exchanged worried glances. Roman suddenly looked like he would very much like to sew his own mouth shut. Virgil reached out to touch Depression’s shoulder and instantly pulled away with an involuntary hiss when the cold bit into his skin. Depression didn’t budge, it was as if he hadn’t felt the touch at all.

Virgil knew what to do. He had no desire to do it, but it didn’t look much like anybody else knew how to help. He took a deep breath and let his imagination run wild for a moment. It didn’t take much for the fear to rear up inside him at the thought of everything that could go wrong, everything that was _already_ going wrong—

He gripped Depression’s shoulder tightly, and steam rose as the glittering frost on Depression’s plain white t-shirt melted, the heat eventually reaching the skin. Depression’s head jerked up, and Virgil pulled his hand away. Depression looked around and blinked. The slightest underlining of eyeshadow was visible beneath his eyes. In an instant, the ice at Depression’s feet vanished, and the room temperature returned to normal. Or maybe it was a little hotter than it had been. Virgil struggled to bottle his racing thoughts again, and he was all-too-aware of the quick thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. Depression noticed. He put his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, an echo of what Virgil had just done for him. At the touch, apathy seeped into his mind. The racing thoughts became sluggish, then stopped altogether. Virgil took a few deep breaths and regained control over himself. Depression took his hand off his shoulder. No words were said, but a silent thanks was understood.

Only then did Virgil notice everybody staring at them. He shrank into his hoodie, face burning. Nobody said anything for a moment, then,

“I apologize.” It was Roman, looking anywhere but Depression’s eyes, “My words were impulsive and insensitive. I hope you can forgive me.”

It was a terrible apology, spoken only out of obligation and fear of retribution rather than legitimate regret. But at least it was an apology.

Depression shrugged, “Whatever.”

Virgil let go of the breath he’d been holding.

Logan’s eyes flitted cautiously around the room. When he’d deemed it safe enough to speak, he cleared his throat,

“Shall we proceed?”

“How much time before Thomas wakes up?” Virgil asked.

“‘Bout an hour.” Depression shrugged. “If the internal clock is right. Which it always is.”

Logan closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the internal clock himself, then opened them again. “Depression appears to be correct. Will an hour be sufficient to prepare yourselves?”

Virgil snorted, “We need maybe two minutes, plus an extra forty seconds to work out the kinks. Yeah, it’ll be sufficient.”

“Excellent.” Logan rubbed his hands together. “All of us have our part to play as well, so I think the best course of action for the rest of us would be to get as much rest as we can. Functioning at full capacity will be difficult these coming days—if you will forgive me for speaking objectively, Depression.”

Depression shrugged. “That’s fair.”

Logan nodded. “To assure everything goes smoothly, I will supervise your ‘remaking’, if you will.” He used the air quotes delicately. “If it truly takes as little time as Virgil says it does, we should plan to make the switch only minutes before Thomas wakes up—otherwise we risk rousing him via emotional disturbance, which could result in us being caught in a very awkward position.”

“We get it, Google,” Roman interrupted crossly. “You’ve thought of everything. We’re all very impressed. Can we get on with it now? Starting with the part where you all _get out of my room!”_ The shriek echoed impressively.

“Oh! Of course. Sorry, kiddo!” Patton waved a little goodbye and sank out of sight.

“Hm.” Logan frowned. “Yes, well, I suppose we could have selected a better rendezvous to gather in, by your absurd standards. Even though your room was obviously the most convenient option. Take my apologies, if I happen to owe them to you.” Logan turned to Virgil and Depression, ignoring the outraged look on Roman’s face, “I propose we three unite no less than five minutes before Thomas awakens. Virgil, if you wouldn’t mind, I believe it would be in our best interests to meet in your room. Are there any objections?”

Virgil and Depression stayed silent—whether from apathy or apprehension no one could say. Logan decidedly took that as a green light and sank down as well.

Three people were left. Roman glared daggers at Depression, Depression met his eyes evenly, and Virgil looked between them, feeling smaller by the second.

“I’m gonna go,” Virgil mumbled, maneuvering himself around the creative clutter towards the door. “I’ll catch you later, Depression.”

Depression nodded in acknowledgement. The door shut with a soft _click_.

Only Depression and Roman remained.

Roman cast his eyes down and resisted the urge to shiver. That awful cold had come and gone, but Roman imagined he could feel it still.

“Creativity,” Depression said, and his voice was so soft Roman couldn’t help but look. Depression’s hands were stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants, and his normally careless face was drawn in some kind of muted melancholy. “I don’t want to be here, just as much as you don’t want me here. But here I am. And as far as I can tell, the easiest way to get through this as quick as humanly possible is for us to just try and be civil to one another until the episode is over. Okay?”

Roman pursed his lips. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try,” He murmured. “But I’ll be watching you—if you do anything even remotely unusual, you’re gone.”

“I understand.”

There was a hesitation.

“I really am trying, you know,” Depression finally said quietly. “To behave. For Thomas.”

When Roman said nothing, Depression vanished into thin air, leaving Roman completely and utterly alone.

* * *

An uneventful, dreaded hour passed. Virgil and Depression sat across from each other on the couch, while Logan stood above them and counted down the seconds.

“Three minutes.” Logan nodded, his eyes opening. “This should be adequate. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Virgil and Depression said in unison.

Virgil and Depression grabbed each other’s hands and closed their eyes. Depression’s hands were cold in Virgil’s.

As though there were some mental starter pistol they were both privy to, energy and influence began to flow between them. Virgil’s thoughts began to malfunction—the fluctuation between their natures was too strong. Yet Virgil grit his teeth and endured, trying his best to ignore the deathly, liquid-nitrogen cold in one hand, and the agonizing, broiling heat in the other. Slowly, Depression’s cold began to seep into his bones. It bled outwards, crystallizing every thought, every feeling in it’s path. Virgil felt as though his blood had turned to supercooled water. Virgil’s own influence was retreating—fleeing into Depression’s being as his own body was invaded by a foreign energy.

The last of the heat slipped out through Virgil’s fingertips. Virgil opened his eyes.

Depression was massaging his temples, similar to how Virgil massaged his when he was experiencing a headache. His leg bounced and he was chewing on his lip, and underneath his eyes had appeared Virgil’s trademark eyeshadow in thick black—a sign of success. Virgil himself felt… nothing. He was tired. He stood up experimentally, and it felt strange to move. As if he were meant to stagnate.

Depression finally opened his own eyes, and they darted around the room, taking in every minute detail, every insignificant particular, and filing them away. His shifting eyes landed on Virgil.

“Your eyeshadow is gone,” He said.

“You have it,” Virgil replied.

Depression stood and glanced in the mirror. “I do,” He concluded. He raised his fingers and snapped, and suddenly, he was wearing Virgil’s clothes. Virgil glanced down and saw a white t-shirt and sweatpants hanging off his own frame.

“Excellent,” Logan said. Virgil and Depression turned to face him, then, Logan’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Depression ran to him and Virgil followed behind, but by the time they got to him he was already trying to prop himself up.

“Apologies.” Logan’s face was sallow and sweaty. “You two expel excessive amounts of contradicting energy. The longer you spend in each other’s presence, the more potent you become.”

“Then you’d better get going.” Depression turned to Virgil. His fingers tapped a steady, fast rhythm at his leg. “We wouldn’t want to raise any alarms.”

“Thirty seconds until Thomas wakes.” Logan’s breaths were shallow.

Virgil glanced around his room—this would be the last time he’d see it for awhile. Depression’s influence didn’t always allow for things like sentiment, but Virgil saved the view to his memory regardless, in case he got ‘homesick’ later.

“Try to get along,” Virgil said, to no one in particular.

“Ten seconds,” Logan gasped.

Virgil felt like something else had to be said, but no words came to him. He nodded at Depression, and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this fic really starts, I'd like to point a few things out for everybody, just so you all know what you're getting into:
> 
> As someone who struggles with mental health issues (including depression and anxiety), I want to make sure everybody knows: What you are about to read is not an accurate depiction of depression and anxiety lol. I just thought this would be fun to write, so I wrote it. Don't read too much into how the Sides affect each other, because it doesn't reflect real life. Just wanted to put that out there.
> 
> Secondly: This is only a second draft. I wrote the entire original just after "Can Lying be Good?" was released, so there is a lot of canon content that does not make an appearance in this fic. This entire thing was written before the events of Selfishness vs. Selflessness, before Remus was ever revealed to have existed, etc.. There are OC Sides in this fic that would take too much energy on my part to rewrite into Remus, and if you don't want to read this because of that, I totally get it. I don't expect this to get a lot of hits hahah, but I felt it would be a waste not to post it when I spent so much time writing it, and it's ~50,000 words long.
> 
> That said, enjoy! There is mild cursing, and several stab wounds, which results in a fair amount of blood. I'll put 'blood' warnings on the associated chapters. Take it easy, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, and hopefully someone enjoys this!


	2. A Rocky Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everybody is like... really extra.

Thomas woke bright and early on a Friday morning feeling strange. It took him awhile to figure out what was different, because rather than the presence of something, he had to search for its absence. But he did find it, and he found that he wasn’t feeling the insistent need to check his phone. Why could that be? Thomas didn’t know, but he _did_ know that his phone was a constant distraction, and not feeling the need to look at it first thing in the morning was probably a good thing. So he let the oddity slip from his mind as he stood up and began to get ready for the day.

It was when he was leaning over to put the first forkful of eggs in his mouth that he got the text, and nearly choked on his breakfast.

_Are you still coming to visit?_

It was a text from his Mom. The two notifications above it were both reminders for the same event—_Visit with parents this weekend!_ Reminders he had completely ignored, because he had neglected to look at his phone when he woke up that morning.

Of course—that was why he’d developed the habit of checking his phone in the morning in the first place. To make sure he hadn’t missed any important developments or obligations. Thomas frowned. How had he forgotten that?

Thomas shook off his concern. It was one mistake, and no damage had been done—he couldn’t afford to waste his energy thinking about useless topics. Right now he had to respond to his Mom.

_Yep! The drive is gonna be awhile though. I’m packing for just this weekend, right?_

The response text came almost immediately,

_Yes. Drive safe, I don’t want you getting a ticket._

_I will. See you soon, Mom! Love ya!_

_ I love you too Thomas._

Thomas smiled and set his phone down, finishing the remainder of his breakfast quickly and darting back up to his room to pack. He threw a couple t-shirts into a backpack, along with a pair of jeans and a few other necessities like socks. He was about to leave his room when Logan rose up in the doorway. Thomas yelped a little and brandished the backpack like a shield. He put the backpack down.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Logan raised one eyebrow.

Thomas hesitated. “Am I?”

Logan sighed. “Your toothbrush? Your hairbrush? You can’t expect your parents to provide basic hygienic supplies for you.”

Patton rose up next to Thomas’s bed and chimed in,

“He’s right, kiddo. It’s rude to expect your parents to provide for you when you’ve already moved out.”

“I wasn’t expecting them to.” Thomas frowned, “I just forgot.”

“Well, we’re here to help you remember.” Logan looked at Thomas’s face curiously for a moment. “While we’re at it, you should grab sunscreen and a hat, or at least some sunglasses. If you’d paid any attention to the forecast, you’d know it’s going to be sunny for a few days.”

“You do burn easily,” Patton pointed out helpfully. “And how about your phone charger? You probably won’t want to ask for one of those, better to bring your own.”

“Do you have your wallet with you?” Logan pressed.

“Guys! Guys.” Thomas put his hands up defensively. “I got it, okay? One thing at a time.”

Logan pursed his lips, but nodded all the same. He looked tired, as did Patton. Thomas didn’t bring it up.

Under Logan and Patton’s guidance, Thomas filled the rest of his backpack with the rest of his necessities (and some un-necessities, too—he had no idea why he was bringing an umbrella when Logan had just told him how hot it was going to get). By the time he was _really_ ready, according to Logan’s standards, it was an hour later than he’d intended to leave.

He was stepping out the door with his keys in his hands, when Virgil materialized in front of his car. Thomas flinched, then relaxed.

“What’s up, Virge?” Thomas called as he approached.

Virgil ignored the question, “Are you forgetting something?”

“Logan asked me that an hour ago, and now I have twice as much luggage as I did. I think I’m good.”

“I feel like you’re forgetting something.”

“Well, I have to go now. If I’m missing anything, I doubt it’s that important.”

“Do you have your phone on you?”

Thomas’s hands flew to his pockets, and he breathed out a sigh of relief when he felt it in his pant pocket. “Yeah, I have my phone.”

Virgil shrugged. “Just making sure. I still feel like you’re forgetting something, but yeah, you’re probably good to go.”

Thomas nodded, unlocking his car. “Cool. Thanks, Virge.”

“…No problem.”

Thomas looked up and he was gone. In the window, he could see Logan’s reflection staring at the place Virgil had been. Thomas hadn’t even realized Logan had followed him outside. He turned to face him,

“What’s on your mind?”

Logan seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then shook his head. His eyes focused on Thomas. “Nothing of importance,” He said crisply. “Drive safely.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Logan sunk down, and Thomas got in his car. It was going to be a long drive to his parents’, he had better things to think about. Like which playlist would be best.

The drive to his parents’ house was just as long and boring as he’d expected. The Sides occasionally popped in to remind him about directions and rules of the road, when he should probably stop to fill up for gas, and if he should treat himself to a snack at the gas station (Logan said he didn’t need the Pringles, Patton said he should get them anyway. Thomas got the Pringles.)

When he finally pulled into his parents’ driveway, it was nearly six o’clock. His Mom answered the door after the first knock. After the initial greeting hugs and kisses, his Mom’s expression turned sour.

“I was hoping you’d arrive sooner. Oh, well. We can catch up over dinner. Go ahead and unpack your bag, and I’ll tell you when the food is ready—it’s almost done.”

Thomas trekked up the stairs to his old room and set his backpack down on the bed. He looked around the room and sighed.

“Wow,” Patton voiced his thoughts for him. “What a throwback.”

“You got that right,” Thomas murmured. It warmed him with a hint of nostalgia—fleeting memories of names and faces he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Can we save the mushiness for later?” Logan said irritably, effectively ruining a moment. “We were given a single instruction—unpack. Is that so hard to do?”

“But I _hate_ unpacking,” Thomas turned to him. “Wouldn’t it just be, I don’t know, more effective to keep all my clothes in the bag? I’m only going to be here a couple days.”

“Then it shouldn’t take you very long to unpack,” Logan pointed out.

Thomas scowled, but couldn’t argue against his annoyingly accurate point.

“Well hey, kiddo,” Patton stepped in at just the right time. “It doesn’t have to be _all_ bad. You like to listen to music while you work, right?”

Thomas sighed, “I guess. I’ll find my earbuds really quick.”

He dug through his backpack, then stopped. He searched his backpack again, then again. There was no mistaking it—he didn’t have his earbuds with him.

“Ah,” Virgil said from the bed. “_That’s_ what you were forgetting.”

Thomas sighed miserably.

When the time came for dinner to be served, Thomas found himself fighting the insatiable urge to leave the table. Every little noise, every strange expression, every water spot on the fork he was eating his spaghetti with annoyed him. It _irritated_ him, and he didn’t know why. He struggled to keep his composure when politics came up in conversation, and he wished (not for the first time) that some, _any_ of his siblings were here with him.

Even as little pinpricks of guilt poked at his guts, Thomas tried to formulate a plan to leave the dinner table without seeming rude. It wasn’t that his parents had done anything wrong, it was just that Thomas—for whatever reason—wasn’t in the mood to talk about what they were talking about. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about _anything_. Or be around anyone, for that matter.

His eyes flickered to the clock on the microwave. It was only 8:00 PM? He was exhausted. He blamed it on all the driving (and partially on the Pringles). All he wanted to do was fall asleep to some relaxing tunes—but wait, he couldn’t do that either, because he’d left his earbuds at home, and there was no way he was risking anybody berating him for playing his music too loud.

Virgil appeared, sitting criss-cross on the floor next to Thomas’s chair.

Thomas shot him a pleading look. Virgil’s eyes darted around the room, assessing the situation. After a minute, he nodded.

“If you want to leave, you’d better finish your food before trying anything,” He murmured, even though no one but Thomas could hear him. “Otherwise no excuse is gonna feel appreciative enough.”

Thomas obeyed, quickly shoveling the remainder of his food into his mouth. It was good—not good enough to make him want to stick around any longer, but good.

Virgil nodded. “Now, you’ve got some options to choose from—“

“—What do you think?” Thomas’s Mom interrupted.

Virgil and Thomas both froze. Neither of them had been paying attention—they had no idea what she was talking about. After what felt like an hour, but was only a moment, Virgil nudged Thomas’s foot.

“Just say what I say,” He hissed. Virgil began to speak, and Thomas followed along blindly.

“Sorry,” He said, trying his best to put the same inflections on his words that Virgil did, “I missed some of that. I didn’t get too much sleep last night, the drive took a lot out of me.”

Thomas held his breath and waited for his Mom to call BS.

“Thomas…” She started slowly. Thomas’s heart was practically beating through his chest. “Do you know how dangerous drowsy driving can be?”

All at once, the tension in his shoulders evaporated.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas repeated. “I just didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer.”

“You could have kept me waiting forever if something happened!” She exclaimed, with exasperated affection in her voice. “Do you know what happens when people drive while distracted?”

“They crash?” Virgil offered.

“They crash,” She declared.

“I know, Mom,” Thomas said awkwardly. Being lectured for being reckless was almost as bad as being lectured for being rude. After a moment, his Mom’s face softened,

“Thank you for eating with us. Now go upstairs and get some rest.”

“Love you, Mom!” Thomas all but sprinted away from the table.

In the stairwell, Thomas allowed himself a moment to breathe. He hadn’t realized just how suffocated he was feeling. Virgil, who had followed him, now sat on the top of the stairs, staring at his feet and not looking nearly as pleased as Thomas thought he would, considering how well his plan worked.

“You okay, Virge?” He asked, taking care to make sure his parents didn’t hear him talking to himself.

Virgil glanced up. “Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired, is all.”

Thomas yawned. “Me too. Do you think I should just go to bed now?”

Virgil blinked. He looked around like he was waiting for someone else to answer, and when no one did, he finally said, “Well… I guess I think if you feel like you’re tired enough, then you can. The most sensible thing to do would be to only go to bed if you feel like you can sleep through the entire night, right? So I guess that’s the real question.”

“I feel like that was an unnecessarily long-winded way of asking how tired I am.”

“It was.”

“Ah.” Thomas thought about it for a moment. “Yeah,” He finally said. “I bet I could sleep through the whole night. I can usually sleep after road trips.”

“Cool. Whatever you think is best.” Virgil thought, then continued, “Just remember to like… brush your teeth and stuff.”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah, obviously. Anyway, g’night.”

“Good n—“ Virgil vanished before Thomas could finish.

* * *

Depression appeared back in the commons and jumped when he came face-to-face with Logan. Roman and Patton were sitting at the table.

“Where were you?” Roman sniffed.

“Well you see, I was walking through the forest, when I found a strange circle of trees with holiday-themed doors carved into them—“

“—Depression,” Logan sighed. Patton tried to hide his giggles.

“Whatever,” He grumbled. “I just went to see Thomas, is all.”

Logan looked at him carefully. “And what transpired during this event?”

“He was having sensory overload and wanted to leave the table, and I told him how to leave without seeming rude.”

“Yeah,” Roman rolled his eyes, “I’m sure _that’s_ what happened. Because you haven’t caused any trouble at _all_ in the past.”

Depression turned to him sharply. “As a matter of fact, that _was_ what happened. Want to find out? Ask Thomas yourself. Consult the memory archive! And I never said I didn’t cause any trouble in the past, wherever you got _that_ idea from. All I did was help Thomas when he asked for it, alright? He wanted to get out of there, and I told him what to say.”

“Ha!” Roman declared, standing abruptly. “You told him to _lie!_ I knew you were still trouble, don’t try to deny it! You’re a liar and a fiend—nothing but bad news. I knew we should have kept you down when we had the chance.”

“It was just a lie of omission!” Depression snapped. “Would you rather I advise him to tell his mother he’s ready to flip a table? That he regrets coming because he’s had a long week and is sick of social interaction? Or would you rather I not interfere at all, and leave Thomas to stew in his bad mood so he can say something impulsive and mean when a topic he’s passionate about comes up?”

“Stop!”

Depression opened his mouth, ready with a vicious retort, then faltered. Patton was the one who had spoken—standing up, eyes wide, lip trembling. Depression’s mouth contorted into a scowl.

“Whatever,” He spat. “Pull up the memory, see if I’m right. I don’t care.” He flipped the hood of the hoodie over his head and stormed out of the commons and into Virgil’s room, curling up on the bed and brewing in his bad mood. Something cold was prickling in the base of his stomach—he made no particular effort to quell it.

Depression wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but the internal clock told him it was only a few hours later when he was startled awake by a knock on the door. His nap had helped to cure his grumpiness a little, but the cold feeling in his guts still hadn’t quite melted by the time he trudged to the door and yanked it open.

The Side at the door wasn’t the Side he’d been expecting—the hug, however nice, was a little disorienting until he realized which pair of glasses he was looking at. When he finally did, he hugged back carefully. He didn’t want to hurt him by accident, seeing as how vulnerable he was to emotional variables.

“How are you doing?” Patton asked.

“Oh, you know…” Depression trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. “…Bad?”

Patton’s face fell, and Depression was quick to correct himself, “Not bad, I didn’t mean it like that,” He scrambled for something to say, he hated seeing Patton sad. “It’s just, well, you know… Roman,” He finished lamely.

At the mention of Roman’s name, Patton pursed his lips.

“I’m sorry about him.” Patton furrowed his brow. “He has no right to treat you that way.”

“Not entirely true,” Depression muttered under his breath. Somehow, Patton still heard.

“He _doesn’t_,” He said firmly. “The Incident was years ago, and you haven’t caused any trouble since then. All Roman is doing is holding a grudge for something you’ve already apologized for.”

Depression looked away.

“Hey.” Patton nudged him gently, “Don’t let him get you down. Did you know he did this to Virgil, too? After the Incident. He was scared—we all were, a little. And we let our fear get the better of our judgement. But,” he continued, “Over time, things changed. We got better, we got along. But it’s an ongoing process—one that Roman still has trouble with. Him and Virgil can work together, and they don’t argue as much as they used to, but Roman still isn’t quite ready to extend an offer of genuine friendship. He’s just not ready for that, I think.” Patton sighed. “Roman still has a few issues he needs to work out, and that’s fine. But what _isn’t_ fine is the way he treats you—if he isn’t going to say anything nice, he shouldn’t say anything at all. You deserve to feel comfortable here, Depression.”

Depression fidgeted on his feet. “Thanks,” He murmured. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, but he did feel a swell of appreciation in his heart for the compassion Patton showed to him, despite how useless he was, despite everything that had happened.

Patton pondered for a moment, and eventually said, “If he causes you any more problems, will you tell me?”

Depression chewed his lip. “Do you want me to?”

Patton nodded. Depression shrugged.

“I’ll try, I guess.”

Patton gave him a sad smile. “Thanks, kiddo.”

There was a beat of nothing, then Patton’s face suddenly changed from sober to bright again.

“I made cookies!” He exclaimed, “I also made sure Roman was gonna be in his room for awhile, so you don’t have to worry about him. Logan and I were gonna play Apples to Apples—did you want to join us?”

Depression nodded, “As long as I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all!” Patton linked arms with him and steered him down the hall. “It’ll actually be a lot better with you there. Apples to Apples is kinda hard to play with only two people.”

Depression chuckled, trying to hide behind a smile.

Patton paused. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Depression looked away, “Just tired.”

It was a lie, but he had years of experience under his belt, and Patton was so damn trusting that he either didn’t notice, or just didn’t push it.

The truth was, Depression _wasn’t_ okay. His fight with the Roman over dinner had spent most of his borrowed anxious energy, and he was running on fumes now. He could only wait, and pray his willpower held long enough to contact Virgil again, or the consequences would be disastrous.

He just hoped things had been going better for Virgil than they had been for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably not going to be updating bi-weekly all the time but I just wanted people who might be familiar with my profile to know that this isn't going to stop getting updated randomly lol, I already have the entire thing written. Cheers!


	3. Friends in Low Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka introduction to the other side I made up before Remus was a thing lol

Virgil sure hoped things were going better for Depression, because things had gone wrong instantly for him.

It all started the moment he materialized into Thomas’s subconscious mind—or, the ‘Basement’. He’d appeared in Depression’s room, just as he’d planned to. Things seemed to be looking smooth for about four seconds, until a knock came on the door. Virgil opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut, remembering Depression’s mannerisms. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing, sitting very still on the bed and hoping very hard that whoever the visitor was would go away.

Despite ‘always expect the worst’ being part of his job description, Virgil’s heart still sank miserably when the visitor paid no heed to being ignored, and the door flew open, revealing exactly the Side Virgil didn’t have the energy to deal with right now.

“Depression!” Deceit cried with theatrical grandeur, “You’re awake! I’m _so_ glad to see that!”

Despite the absurd emphasis, any Dark Side with sense would know he meant every word—he was a liar, but he was hardly mean-spirited, and exaggeration was one of his ways of lying while telling the truth. Virgil found it easy to say nothing in response. Sure, because Depression’s influence was coursing through his veins, but also, what the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Deceit swept into the room and gathered Virgil up in a very unanticipated hug. Virgil squirmed until Deceit let go, recoiling from his touch like it was poison. He didn’t need the embodiment of lies discovering his own deception via some magic touch Virgil didn’t know about. Luckily, Deceit didn’t seem to take offense to it. Instead, he stood back from him at arm’s length and continued to ramble on, saying,

“Oh, we have _so_ much to talk about. You have _no_ idea what’s been happening Upstairs—Anxiety _told the Light Sides his name!_ Don’t get me wrong, I love him to death, but he’s a nutcase if he actually thinks that’s gonna make them like a _Dark Side_ more. And that’s definitely _not_ the jealously talking, I don’t covet active companionship or being valued _at all_. Oh, also, I got found out. Silly, I know. I didn’t slip into a video on purpose because I was bored, and I definitely didn’t ultimately get caught because Anxiety recognized me masquerading as Morality, or anything. I don’t miss him being around. Well, I do. No, I don’t. Maybe. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention the rest of us to Thomas. In other news, Roman is becoming slightly better-mannered, but not by much. Anyway, how were things here? I’m _very_ sure it’s _super_ exciting and _a lot_ goes on while you’re asleep.” He looked at Virgil expectantly.

Virgil blinked. That was a lot of truth and lies to sort through.

“Erm,” He shuffled his feet, not sure what to say. Then he remembered that nothing mattered anyway, Thomas was going to die one day and they would all disappear, and no matter of happenstance would change that no despite how much it emotionally impacted anyone. So, what the hell, right? “Not really,” Virgil muttered, and it almost scared him how much he sounded like Depression. Almost—he was too tired to care. “It’s dark. That’s as about exciting as it gets.”

“What—you don’t have any dreams?”

“I’m pretty sure my function doesn’t support anything about dreams.” Truth be told, Virgil had no idea if Depression had dreams or not. “I guess it would make sense for _you_ to have dreams, seeing as your purpose is to, you know, fabricate different realities or whatever. Unfortunately, not all of us are that useful.”

“Negativity is a good look on you.”

Virgil wasn’t sure if that one was sarcastic or not.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil asked.

Deceit shrugged, “Recent emotional disturbances—thought I’d check out the neighborhood. Now that I have, I was thinking of going on a walk. Care to join me?”

“No.”

“That’s the spirit!” Deceit ignored him, and his cape swirled as he exited with flair. Virgil didn’t have energy enough to protest further and trudged after him, much to the objection of his own common sense.

He’d barely made it out the door when Deceit snapped his fingers, and they appeared on a beaten path in a brightly-lit forest. Though it was light, the sky was still pitch-black—motionless and starless. The Basement was endless as far as the Sides were concerned, and it was in constant motion. That meant Virgil could walk all day, to the edges of wherever he dared to go, and revisit every place he’d been to, and there was no guarantee any of it would be recognizable when he got back. When you lived in the Basement, you learned to get used to unpredictability. You also learned, more importantly, to identify things by their function, not their appearance. There was only so much the Sides could control down here.

This forest didn’t seem to have a function. It seemed to simply exist—Virgil doubted it would last the day before either changing or vanishing. Deceit and Virgil made their way down the path without saying anything; the chirping of insects and the singing of birds filled the silence nicely.

“Virgil,” Deceit said suddenly. Despite Depression’s apathetic influence coursing through his being, Virgil felt all the blood drain from his face, and the bottom of his stomach dropped out in dread. How had he found out? What was he going to do?

“That’s his name,” Deceit continued. “Anxiety’s name, I mean. Virgil—I thought I would tell you, in case you didn’t know. You seem to miss these sorts of things.”

Virgil felt weak with relief. _He doesn’t know yet, he doesn’t know yet,_ he chanted in his head. Everything was still fine. Now that Virgil’s heart no longer threatening to beat out of his chest, he nodded in what he hoped to be an acknowledging, but uncaring way.

“That doesn’t end with an ‘_an_’ or an ‘_on_’,” Virgil echoed Patton’s words.

Deceit chuckled, “That’s just what Patton said when he found out.” His face suddenly contorted into poorly concealed anger, “Just another reason he doesn’t fit with them. Another reason why he should have stayed with us. Why did he even tell them his name? To fit in with them? What about _us?_ Depression, would you ever try to become one of them?”

“No.”

“Of course not! Because _we_ are _different_ from them!” His lip contorted in a sneer, “It’s not fair. If none of _us_ get a turn in the sun, why does he?”

Virgil felt his stomach lurch. It wasn’t only the fear of discovery, or the malevolence in Deceit’s mismatched eyes—it was also guilt. He remembered thinking nearly those exact same things about the Light Sides—the Sides that had since become his friends.

_Friends?_

Maybe not friends, but something more than enemies, he hoped.

“Do you hate him?” Virgil asked softly.

All the anger drained from his face, and for a moment Deceit just looked puzzled. “Do I hate Virgil?”

Virgil nodded. Deceit’s cool facade slipped back over his face,

“I don’t know.”

It was a lie. But Virgil didn’t know what the truth was, and that unsettled him more than anything.

Deceit blinked (or rather, winked, seeing as his snake eye could never close), and shook off his frown.

“I’m famished. And bored with these trees. Shall we leave?”

“Whatever.” Virgil shrugged.

Deceit held out his arm, and Virgil reluctantly took it. In an instant, they were in an old familiar place, one Virgil hadn’t seen in a long time—the Basement living room.

Like most things in the Basement, it was bigger than it’s Upstairs parallel. And, like it’s Upstairs parallel, there was usually somebody occupying it. In this case, it was the only other Side Virgil had yet to greet.

Sitting on the couch and facing the T.V., the Side in a conductor’s uniform was playing a video game. Deceit and Virgil stopped to watch.

The character on-screen jumped, threw a punch, jumped again, and promptly fell into a chasm and died. Deceit smirked and even Virgil cracked a smile—it wasn’t just the failure that was funny, it was what came next. The character re-spawned. It continued though the level a ways, and when it approached the area it had just been, it jumped, threw a punch, jumped again, and fell into the very same pit and died. The level restarted. Jump, punch, jump, die. Jump, punch, jump, die. Jump, punch, jump, die. Jump, punch, jump, die…

Virgil was suddenly very aware he’d been watching him play for much longer than he’d intended to. He shook himself out of the small trance he’d fallen into, but the smile never left his face. Virgil sighed, not loud enough for the sound to carry over to the couch, but just loud enough that Deceit would hear it. And he did. Deceit gave Virgil the slightest of once-overs, then cleared his throat just as the character on-screen died one more time. The game paused.

The Side glanced over the couch carelessly, then did a double take when he saw Deceit wasn’t alone. A wide smile split his face.

“Depression!” He greeted warmly, “You’re awake!”

Virgil couldn’t help it—he smiled back. “It’s good to see you, Habit.”

Habit hopped over the edge of the couch and pulled Virgil into a constricting, but welcome hug. When Virgil was around Habit, his fast-paced thoughts slowed down, and his far-fetched worries settled into a more acceptable, realistic rhythm. He felt like somebody lost who had just found their way. Virgil’s fears dissipated for the moment, and he let himself enjoy it.

“How have you been?” Habit asked, leading Virgil to the couch and sitting him down. Deceit rolled his eyes and went to fetch something to eat.

“Oh, you know,” Virgil shrugged, “Tired.”

Habit laughed sheepishly, “Yeah, I guess I should have been expecting that. I’m thinking Deceit’s caught you up on everything that’s gone down since you’ve been asleep?”

Virgil shrugged again, “He told me about Anxiety’s name, but that’s about it.”

“Yeah.” Habit suddenly looked crestfallen, “‘Virgil’. I wonder if he would have stayed with us if he trusted us enough to tell us first.”

_Geez._ Was this the RIP Anxiety party?

“But,” Habit continued, rolling off his melancholy, “I’m glad he’s up there. Sure, I miss him like crazy, but it’s probably been good for him, and Thomas too. Besides,” He nudged Virgil playfully, “One of us Dark Sides was bound to make it up there, and it sure wasn’t gonna be me.” He chuckled, “I have way too much to do. Nobody else would ever get word in—it’s better this way.”

The knot that had tied in Virgil’s guts loosened a little. _Habit isn’t angry with me_. He should have known—Habit was the most similar to Thomas out of any of the Sides, and Thomas would never be angry about something like that.

Deceit returned, munching on a bag of barbecue chips. Habit’s eyes were drawn to it instantly.

“That looks good. Can I have some?”

Deceit sighed, but held out the bag. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

Before Virgil could blink, Habit had made it all the way to Deceit’s side and had snatched the bag from his hands, retrieving a bowl from the cupboard and pouring an excessive amount in. He handed the considerably-lighter bag back to Deceit and kept his focus on not dropping any chips on the floor as he made his way back to the couch.

Virgil eyed him as he sat down again. “New habit?”

Habit blushed, a chip halfway to his mouth. “Sometimes, Thomas likes to eat snacks instead of having an actual meal. What can I say? I’m working on it.” He put his bowl of chips down and picked up the controller again. With a snap, another controller appeared on the table.

“Wanna play? This thing has multi-player.”

Maybe he was just too depressed to care about the risks involved, or maybe he just missed being down here. For whatever reason, he nodded, and Habit smiled.

“Good to have you back.”


	4. Cold, Cold Man

Fortunately, the weekend passed without any incidents, and Thomas made it back home safe and sound. Unfortunately, the peace between the Sides hardly kept longer than that. Roman and Virgil bickered like there was no tomorrow—it kept Thomas up at night, it distracted him while he was working, and it plagued him with headaches throughout the day. It didn’t help that Logan and Patton didn’t seem too keen on interfering, because it meant that Thomas had to break up the fights by himself most of the time. A perfect example of this endlessly-annoying occurrence was this morning.

Thomas had been woken by his alarm, and Roman had instantly appeared, as if on cue (he probably was), looking uncharacteristically messy, but charming all the same.

“Good morning, Thomas!” He’d sang loudly. Thomas greeted him with a yawn and a stretch.

“What’s got my creativity going so early in the morning?”

“Oh, nothing in particular! I just think today should be a productive day, since you didn’t get anything done whilst at your parents’ house. You know what they say—_carpe diem_!”

“I suppose,” Thomas murmured, sliding out of bed and getting ready.

He opened his bathroom door and nearly had a heart attack—Virgil was standing there, silent and unexpected as ever.

“Actually, I think you should check up on your friends,” Virgil muttered. “You haven’t seen them all weekend, maybe you should schedule a hangout to make sure they still know you like them.”

“As if they could ever forget,” Roman scoffed. “Ignore him, Thomas. He’s just making you paranoid, as usual.”

“I’m _not_,” Virgil ground out. “What if they think you only value them as tools now? When was the last time you hung out with them that wasn’t for a video?”

“It _has_ been a couple weeks…” Thomas nodded nervously.

“Stop that!” Roman glared at Virgil, “You’re manipulating him!”

“What? How!” Virgil threw his hands up.

“You’re trying to convince him to do what you want him to do!”  
“_So are you!_”

“That’s not the same!”

“Why not?” Thomas looked at Roman, puzzled.

“Because it’s _him_,” Roman sputtered, looking very much at a loss for words.

Virgil raised one eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Roman stomped his foot on the ground like a child having a tantrum. “He’s turning you against me!” He whined.

Virgil turned to Thomas. “What a brat, right?” He whispered loudly.

“I heard that!”  
“You were supposed to.”

Virgil and Roman began talking loudly over each other, insulting and arguing with one another like their lives depended on it. With every word spoken, Thomas became more exhausted and disoriented, their insults and catty remarks digging into his ears like a horrible, mental drill.

“Stop!” He shouted. Roman and Virgil obeyed, their harsh voices dying down. It suddenly felt like the silence was screaming. Thomas took a deep breath and tried to let it out evenly.

“Listen,” Virgil spat, “I didn’t want this—I’m not even sure how I got here in the first place. I was planning on staying in my room all day, but here I am now, and here we all are. At this point, I don’t even care what we do, but can Thomas at least brush his teeth before we get into another discussion?” Virgil turned to Roman, “We’ve been at each other’s throats all weekend, and I’m sick of it. It’s not helping Thomas, and it’s pathetic at this point.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Was Thomas imagining that temperature drop?

“I want you to leave.” Roman crossed his arms over his chest. “Now.”

Virgil’s eyes lit up with fury, and for a moment, Thomas felt cold inside. But Virgil sank out without another word, and Thomas and Roman were alone again.

“What was that?” Thomas finally turned to glare at Roman.

“I was protecting you!” Roman shot back defensively.

“From what? Virgil?” Thomas glared at him, “I thought you were better than this.”

Roman sagged. “You don’t understand, Thomas.”

“No, I don’t,” Thomas agreed irritably. “I don’t understand why you have to make him feel like an outsider all the time, even though you’ve seen how important he is. And I don’t understand why you expect me to be proud of you for doing so.”

Roman was silent for a long time.

“I’m just trying to help you, Thomas.” He said softly.

“Send Logan,” Thomas ignored him. “I don’t want to talk to you today after what you just pulled.”

He had, and Thomas hadn’t seen Roman or Virgil since. Logan was currently trying to teach him a better way to fold laundry, with little success. Eventually, he groaned and gave up, dematerializing the imaginary shirt he’d been demonstrating on.

“What is it?” He said, annoyed.

Thomas looked over mournfully, “Roman and Virgil hate each other again, and I don’t know why!”

Logan paused. “Perhaps you should let them work it out by themselves,” He said. “It seems to be a personal dispute.”

“You mean ignore it?”

“That isn’t what I said, but for the sake of simplicity, sure.”

Thomas shot Logan a suspicious look. “Do you know anything about this ‘personal dispute’?”

Logan cleared his throat, looking away. “I do. But it is not my place to speak of it, and I would prefer if you didn’t ask.”

Thomas sighed. “How much longer is this going to go on?”

“Not much longer,” Logan murmured. “So long as everything goes according to plan.”

“And how likely is that?”

Logan looked at Thomas,

“Not very likely.”

* * *

A knock on Virgil’s door surfaced Depression from the apathetic trance he’d sunk into.

“What?” He scowled in the dark.

“It’s Logan. We need to talk.”

_Oh._

Depression opened the door, blinking in the sudden light. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, hoping Logan hadn’t noticed how cold his room was.

“What?”

“This discussion involves Roman as well. Come with me.”

Depression frowned, but followed anyway. They arrived at Roman’s door, where Logan knocked.

“Go away!” Roman’s wails were muffled through the door.

Logan pursed his lips and knocked again. “Open the door.”

“I refuse!”

Logan knocked a third time. “If you don’t open this door in ten seconds or less, I will not hesitate to get Patton involved, and we will come in anyway.”

Nine and a half seconds later, a disgruntled, visibly upset Prince swung the door inwards, glowering at the both of them like he were imagining all the different ways he could creatively and effectively humiliate them. Which he probably was.

“Come in,” He welcomed sarcastically.

Logan ignored his tone and stepped inside, Depression following behind. Logan closed the door, and Depression found his way from behind him and made his way to one comfortable corner of the room.

“Now,” Logan began, voice hard, “I don’t know what’s gotten into the both of you, but it needs to stop immediately. Even Thomas is getting curious—I told him it was a personal dispute and would be resolved forthwith.” He glared at them in turn. “For your sakes’, it better be. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

“It’s not _my_ fault,” Roman jumped in immediately. “I’m doing the right thing here—I’m defending Thomas and his headspace from the cold clutches of _this_ villain’s icy influence.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Depression.

“I haven’t even done anything wrong yet!” Depression threw his hands in the air, “The only one causing problems around here right now is _you_, because you’re letting your hatred for me get in the way of doing your job right! Stop trying to throw me under the bus, and just admit you’ve been trying to sabotage me since I got here!”

“Have not!”  
“Have too!”

“SHUT UP!” Logan roared.

Depression clenched his jaw—it was all he could do to keep from freezing everything in sight. He breathed deeply and tried to think. Logan… logic. Yes, he knew how to appeal to that.

“I’m sorry,” Depression managed to mumble. “And you’re right. We’ll fix it. Right, Princey?”

Despite their many differences, Depression and Roman shared one thing in common at the moment—they both wanted Logan off their backs. Even if it was only so they could keep arguing once he was out of range.

“Right.” Roman caught on quickly, nodding, “By the time Thomas wakes up tomorrow, our dispute will be silenced—we promise.”

Logan’s tension deflated. “Good. I advise you to discuss more amongst yourselves on the subject matter, but I will leave you in peace. For now.”

Roman nodded with exaggerated soberness, “Of course!”

Logan chose to sink out instead of walking away. As soon as he was gone, Roman whirled around to Depression.

“What the hell are you playing at?” He snapped.

Depression scoffed, “I’m just doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Isn’t that kind of the point of me being here? Why are _you_ picking so many fights?”

“Right—as if _I’m_ the deviant in this scenario.”

“You _are_ the deviant in this scenario, you self-righteous prick!”

“As if _you_ could make that judgement call, Mr. Psychopath Lite!”

“You’re just bitter because you don’t know how to handle being called the bad guy!” Depression snarled. He almost regretted saying it, because he could see on Princey’s face the exact moment he lost his filter entirely.

“You’re a disgrace,” Roman sneered. “Even for a _Dark Side_, you’re useless. You don’t protect Thomas, you don’t advise him, you don’t make sure he stays self-aware, or even that he sticks up for himself! All you know how to do—all you _can_ do—is bring Thomas down and trap him in the dark. You are the villain, Depression. You always have been, you always will be, and no apology uttered nor good deed performed will ever change what you are.”

Depression was tired. He was tired of arguing, he was tired of defending himself, he was tired of being ignored and avoided, he was tired of being hated, and he was tired of Roman being right. He was so tired. But he knew, deep down inside, that he couldn’t return to sleep yet—he knew there was still work to be done.

It was all just a matter of eliminating the one Side who consistently stood in his way.

Roman smirked victoriously, basking in his sense of accomplishment. Of course he would be. Why would Roman think silence meant anything but defeat? With newfound purpose, Depression opened his mouth again.

“You’re right,” Depression nodded, “And your reasoning is nearly flawless. You just aren’t accounting for one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

Behind Depression’s back, a long, pointed icicle sprouted from his fingertips. He clenched it in his fist.

“If I’ll never change, why try?”

Roman's smirk faltered. “What?”

He realized only a moment too late that something was amiss, but Depression was already in motion. In one fluid strike, he thrust the icicle-dagger upwards into Roman’s ribcage. Roman choked out a gasp and tried to grapple with Depression for a grip on the blade, but with every thrashing moment his movements only got weaker until he finally stopped struggling altogether and fell limp in Depression’s arms.

Depression set him down gently on the floor, where his limbs involuntarily curled into the fetal position. Roman’s unblinking eyes were glazed over with frost. His face was pale, and his lips and fingertips were already beginning to turn blue. He didn’t move, save for the shallow, irregular breaths that rattled out helplessly and quietly.

Depression crouched next to him and stroked his back delicately. In that touch, he could feel all of Roman’s misery, self-loathing, disorientation, and exhaustion warring away inside of him. Feeling pity, he froze them too, and Roman’s face relaxed marginally as all his present cares were swept away under a tide of numbness. A shame they would be the first thing he felt when he thawed.

Depression stood, and felt no regret for what he’d done. They could manage without Roman for a little while, couldn’t they? Yes, with his impulsiveness and disregard for rules, they were probably better off without him in the long run. Besides, this wouldn’t be permanent—it was just to keep things a little calmer until the depressive episode was over. Roman would be fine when all was said and done with—Depression had certainly seen worse damage dealt. Logan and Patton hardly needed to know about this little altercation, and if they did end up getting in the way…? Well, then, Depression could deal with them too.

The room was freezing, literally. The floors and walls glittered with splinters of ice, and Depression could see his breath when he sighed.

Yes, this would all be over soon, and Depression could finally go back to sleep as long as everything went according to plan.

Which it usually didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've been hit by  
You've been struck by  
Depression


	5. Chapter Without a Name I Guess

After Virgil’s first day of socializing and reacquainting himself with the Basement’s residents, he’d been entirely content to go back to Depression’s room and sleep until it was time for the cycle to end. And, until merely minutes ago, he’d been doing just that.

The Basement was larger than the conscious mind. It was fluid, and could sometimes change according to whims that may or may not have meant to influence it. In other words, it was an enormous, warped echo chamber. If Thomas was feeling something strongly enough, you might be able to get a semi-accurate reading on what it was if you paid enough attention to your surroundings.

Virgil happened to be very good at paying attention to his surroundings, depressive influence or not. Which is why when something big shifted, rippling it’s trace energy throughout the subconscious headspace, Virgil nearly fell out of bed upon this rude awakening.

Virgil took deep breaths and tried to make sense of what had roused him. The psychological shockwave was fading fast, like a dream half-remembered, but Virgil could feel the presence it left behind still—like a disease in the air, or entering a nuclear fallout zone. Something had changed, and it wasn’t something good.

Had something happened upstairs? Maybe he should pop into Logan’s room for a little, just to make sure things were okay. That couldn’t hurt, right? Well, actually, Virgil could think of several ways it could hurt, but they were unlikely enough that he could disregard them for the sake of the bigger picture. He turned it over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. _Maybe just a quick check-in_…

Depression’s door burst inwards, and there again stood Deceit in all his serpentine glory.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil squeaked. He cleared his throat, “I was trying to sleep.”

“Come with me.” Depression grabbed Virgil’s arm and yanked him out of bed, paying no heed to his protests. The two stepped out the door, Deceit snapped his fingers, and then they were somewhere else. Virgil took a moment to assess his surroundings—they were on the border of the Imagination, a constant landmark in the chaos that was the Basement. When in use, it could be whatever the user wanted it to be, but now it was dark and quiet—a curtain of shadow prevented anything from being seen inside.

Virgil pulled his arm away from Deceit, scowling.

“What are we doing here?”

Deceit shushed him, putting one gloved finger on Virgil’s lips. Virgil slapped the hand away, but continued quieter,

“What’s going on?”

Deceit eyed him with an emotion Virgil couldn’t quite decipher. Finally, he whispered,

“Did you feel it?”

“The not-so-little disturbance in the force? Of course I did.”

“Look into the Imagination,” He nodded into the void before them. “Do you see it?”

Virgil resisted the urge to find the nearest wall and run his head into it. “Deceit, you’re the only one who can see in the dark, remember? Not all of us have snake senses.” Besides, Virgil knew how to work the Imagination—it wasn’t exactly difficult. He stepped over the border, and heard Deceit suck in a breath.

“Lights!” Virgil called. There was a slight flicker around him, like a dim bulb that wasn’t quite screwed in right, but the Imagination remained in darkness. All around him there was silence—wait, no, that wasn’t quite true. There was a soft, ambient noise all around him, getting a little louder with each passing moment. A crackling sound, like static electricity, or…

Deceit snatched his hand from behind and yanked him sharply backwards, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. Virgil yelped and stumbled backwards, back out of the curtain of shadow. He rubbed his arm and scowled at Deceit.

“What was _that_?”

“I feel _so_ appreciated,” Deceit muttered. He pointed one gloved finger at the edge of the border, and Virgil had to lean closer to catch what he was supposed to be looking at.

“Glitter?” But it wasn’t glitter, it only looked like glitter because of the way it sparkled in the light. Virgil poked it experimentally, and his finger came away cold. “Frost.”

Virgil’s disguise was already hanging by a thread, but this realization evaporated the last strands of depressive energy. He fought to keep any traces of telling anxious eyeshadow from gracing his face, but it was difficult, because frost meant the Imagination was frozen over. And if the Imagination was frozen over, it meant Depression had done something to Roman. And if Depression had done something to Roman…

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Depression,” Deceit’s voice was low, wary, “What are you doing?”

“This isn’t me.” Virgil stepped farther away from the border. It wasn’t a _lie_, therefore, Deceit wouldn’t be able to call him out on it. _That makes sense, right?_

Deceit glanced over him, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.

“Well, for now, we need to leave the area. I don't want to take any possible chance possible at being corrupted.”

Virgil got the hint. With another mistrustful glance, Deceit allowed Virgil to take his arm, and in an instant, they were back in the Basement living room.

“Habit!” Deceit called out, stepping away from Virgil like he was contagious. “Habit, where are you?”

“I’m here,” Habit called from the top of the stairs, peeking his head down and spotting the two of them. Habit and Virgil’s eyes met, and a flash of puzzlement crossed Habit’s face. “You’re back again. So soon?”

Virgil opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, but Deceit saved the day by interrupting with an abrupt,

“Do you know anything about the unusual growth in the Imagination?”

Habit frowned. “There’s a growth in the Imagination?”

“You didn’t notice?” Virgil’s brow furrowed. Habit was practically Thomas’s puppet master—he had strings in everything; there were no functions he wasn’t privy to.

“I knew _something_ happened.” Habit nodded, “I had to check all the functions, make sure they were working. I felt the Imagination going haywire, but a growth?” He pursed his lips and descended the staircase, “What kind of growth?”

“Ice.” Virgil glued his gaze to the carpet. “The entire Imagination is frozen over.”

“Well then, stop whatever it is you’re doing.” Habit raised an eyebrow, “Easy as that.”

“But I’m not doing anything!” Virgil protested.

“Believe him,” Deceit conceded with a sigh. “He may or may not be telling the truth.”

“Hm.” Habit began pacing back and forth, and Virgil’s chest constricted. Sure, pacing was a habit. But the problem was if it were a _nervous_ habit or not—was Virgil’s influence spreading already? Would they be able to tell? “We need a plan, then,” Habit continued. “I’d suggest we go upstairs and check it out, but Thomas is close to waking and I’d rather not risk being seen.”

“So we wait until he falls asleep again,” Virgil suggested. “Meanwhile, we can monitor his progress throughout the day to determine what’s causing the problem, or at least how it’s effecting him.”

Habit and Deceit stared. Virgil realized his mistake—Depression would have never made a suggestion at all, much less one that required thought and effort. Virgil scoured his mind for a way to explain it away.

“Look,” Virgil slumped his shoulders, relaxed his facial muscles, “This is just reminding me of the Incident, and everybody hated me for a long time after that—they still do. The sooner we figure out what’s going on, the sooner I can prove this time it isn’t my fault.”

Habit _hmph_’d in approval, but Deceit’s eyes narrowed further. He wouldn’t be fooled so easily.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Habit shrugged. With a wave, the remote control appeared in his hand. He turned on the T.V. and flicked through the dead channels until he settled on a tiny white countdown in the middle of a black screen. The little numbers blinked regularly between a steady countdown and a time.

“No screen time for dreams tonight,” Habit murmured.

“And I had something good planned for it, too,” Deceit grumbled.

The countdown was just one more side effect of the Imagination being compromised. Typically, the T.V. displayed daydreams and distractions, _actual_ dreams, and/or the world through Thomas’s eyes in-real-time. Thomas wasn’t awake, so no daydreams nor real-world happenings were to be viewed, but tonight dreams were scarce. So, the T.V. resorted to airing the one thing it still could: the internal clock. The time represented just that—the time of day. The countdown represented how much time remained until Thomas woke up. Right now, the countdown read _2:44_ (_2:43, 2:42, 2:41_…)

Habit fidgeted. Deceit was still throwing suspicious looks Virgil’s way. Virgil resisted the urge to bounce his leg and found a seat on the couch, stuffing his hands into his pockets when he didn’t know what to do with them.

Then the countdown hit _1:30_, and Habit’s entire body promptly flickered like a bad light bulb.

Virgil jumped backwards, and Deceit shouted some very choice words. Habit narrowed his eyes at the two of them.

“Is one of you doing this?”

“No!” Protested Virgil.

“Yes!” Lied Deceit.

Habit flickered in and out of visibility again.

“I believe you,” He murmured. “Something strange is happening Upstairs, I can feel it.”

“What is it?” Virgil asked.

“I’m not omniscient, Depression, I’d have to actually be up there to see what’s going on.” Then, he paused. Frowned. “Hold on.”

“What?” Deceit pressed.

“I think…” Habit’s eyes widened. “Somebody is summoning me!”

The countdown hit _1:00_, and Habit disappeared entirely. Suspicion momentarily forgotten, Virgil and Deceit stared at each other. _What just happened?_


	6. In Which Logan Has to Get Creative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO did y'all see the new Sanders Asides yet? What did you think about it??

Logan was a big enough Side to admit he had guilty pleasures. He just wasn’t a big enough Side to tell anybody what they were, which is why it took him several hours to gather both the resolve and the dignity to ask Roman why there weren’t any dreams airing on his television tonight.

Logan arrived at Roman’s door half an hour before Thomas’s alarm was supposed to sound. _I suppose there’s no point in putting it off any longer than I have to._ He knocked a single, crisp, knock, and waited. When he heard no embarrassing singing, nor heeled boots clicking, he knocked again, harder. Nothing.

Perhaps Roman was still upset with him for forcing him and Depression to work in the same room together—maybe he should come back later. Or did something like that warrant an apology first?

“Please open the door.” He said.

Once again, no sound was heard. Something was off—this wasn’t like Roman. He couldn’t stay quiet for more than five minutes at a time—he talked to himself while he worked, he even talked in his sleep. Even if he were still upset, the silent treatment simply wasn’t the Roman way.

“Roman?” He cringed at the unbidden edge of concern that crept into his voice. “I don’t want to invade your personal space, but unless you open the door I will enter regardless—your behavior is troubling me.”

No response. Logan huffed out a short breath, trying to convince himself that no, he wasn’t _that_ worried about Roman, he was just annoyed at his sub-par conversational skills. He seized the door handle, twisted, and paused.

He twisted the handle again, and again, the handle did not turn to his movements. Only because it was so unexpected did it take Logan so long to comprehend what was happening.

“What?” He exclaimed under his breath. Had Roman _locked the door_? Was that even possible?

Logan released his hold on the handle, and his hand came away cold. _Cold_? A shiver slithered down Logan’s spine, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. Something was wrong, and it was up to him to solve it. But there was one problem he would have to address first—daytime was fast approaching, and Logan couldn’t risk bringing this to Thomas’s attention, lest he put a little too much thought into recent changes for comfort. Logan closed his eyes and probed for the internal clock. He had fifteen minutes until Thomas’s alarm clock went off, which meant fifteen minutes to formulate an acceptable plan.

Logan tried to keep calm, and forced his mind to work. It seemed Roman would not be present today, and—because Logan didn’t know the cause—he would have to fabricate a reason on his own as to why Thomas was lacking in creativity today. Anxiety present or not, Thomas would notice Roman’s absence. With ten minutes left on the countdown, Logan felt the beginnings of panic begin to creep in, but he warded it off with breathing patterns. _Focus_.

A sudden idea came to him. Logan couldn’t be certain if it were a _good_ idea or not—clearly, creativity was not his forte—but it was better than nothing. What if Thomas never had to know Roman was out of commission at all? If Logan placed a decoy Roman in his place, Thomas might never know the difference until he figured out a way to fix this, and Logan already had the perfect candidate in mind. Surely it couldn’t be _that_ different from Virgil and Depression swapping places… Right? And besides, of all the Dark Sides to pick from, Logan had the most practical in mind, and that—by reasonable extension—made him the easiest to work with.

Five minutes left on the clock. Time was running out, so Logan made a decision. Reaching his mind out, he probed for his signature energy somewhere below him, an undercurrent, a comforting, ever-present rhythm. He tugged at it experimentally, but it didn’t budge. Hm. This may be more difficult than he thought.

Three minutes and several failed attempts later, Logan leaned against the wall, fatigued. _Newton’s wig,_ he thought to himself, _I knew it would be difficult to pull his metaphorical roots from wherever he’s planted, but this is ridiculous_. He glanced at the countdown—one minute and forty seconds. This was _not_ ideal—he was running out of time, and fast. He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the energy again, forcing as much of his willpower as he could find into this act of summoning.

In front of him, a silhouette flickered like a bad T.V. signal, then faded away. Logan almost jumped for joy, but his dizziness trumped his elation. He tried again, this time the image was stronger, and lasted a little longer. Now, for the third time, Logan threw all his psychological weight into it, dredging up reaches he didn’t even know he had in his desperate attempt to save the entire situation at hand.

The clock hit one minute, and a very surprised-looking Habit materialized in the hallway. Logan managed to congratulate himself on his success before his vision clouded with black. His knees buckled under him for the second time that week, and he barely felt himself hit the floor before exhaustion overtook him.

* * *

Logan was lying down. Why was he lying down? There was a soft pressure on his forehead and a reassuring voice humming in his ear, and Logan was reminded of Thomas’s mother when they were children. But Thomas’s mother wasn’t in the headspace.

“Patton?” Logan murmured.

The humming voice laughed. “Not quite.”

Then who…? Oh. _Oh._

Logan’s eyes flew open. “What time is it?” He cried, startling Habit.

“Hold your horses!” Habit shook off his surprise, “Don’t do Anxiety’s job for him. It’s _6:40_. In the morning,” He added as an afterthought.

Logan buried his face in his hands. Thank Tesla—he’d barely been asleep for ten minutes.

“You know,” Habit continued, “I’ve been theorizing on it, and I’m still not sure why you called.”

_That_ was going to be difficult to explain.

“Will you do something for me,” Logan began slowly, “And not tell anybody about it?”

Habit cocked one eyebrow. “Depends on what you have in mind, toots. Are we talking clothes on or clothes off?”

“Clothes on!” Logan tried his best to ignore Habit's advances. “But not your own clothes, per se. How well can you imitate the mannerisms of others?”

“Pretty well, depending on how much of their personality is defined by their habits.” He narrowed his eyes, “What about it?”

“This may sound strange,” Logan said, “But for the sake of confidentiality, I need you to agree to do this before I tell you more.”

Habit bit his lip. Logan could practically see the debate in his head.

“You know what?” He finally said, “Sure, whatever.”

Logan released the breath he’d been holding. “I was hoping I could rely on you—thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Habit rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “I’m the best, I know. So, what’s happening here—what do you need me to do?”

“Well in short: Roman seems to be incapacitated for an indeterminable period of time. I need you to act in his place until we can figure out a way to resolve the issue.”

“Roman? Which one is that?”

“Creativity.”

Habit groaned. “For real? He’s the _worst!_ He’s so unpredictable and just… _extra_ extra. You’re gonna owe me big time for this.”

“…But you’ll do it?” Logan clarified timidly.

“Of course I will. But only for you. And also because I’m the best.” He grinned again. Habit snapped his fingers, and Roman appeared in his place—his likeness was so perfect it gave Logan a start. With that cocky grin on his face, even his mannerisms seemed identical.

“I know, I know,” Habit as Roman took a deep bow, “I’m amazing. Save your applause, the performance has only started.” He glanced up at Logan questioningly, “Was that good enough?”

Logan said a silent prayer of gratitude to the universe. “It was perfect,” He managed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part of the new episode by far was:
> 
> Anna: "Why have a ballroom with no balls?"  
Remus: *laughs*  
Thomas: *represses laughter*


	7. A Lot of Things Happen in This Chapter and Many of Them Are Unfortunate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the seasonal depression is starting to set in so Thomas in this chapter is mostly just Relatable for me.  
Warning: Blood mentions!!

_Is this a dream?_

Thomas laid in his bed, warm covers surrounding him, the warm glow of the timed lamplight illuminating the room in a soft yellow. Nothing was moving, and yet, time seemed to be passing so slowly. There was no sound, no movement, no nothing.

Nothing, except for Virgil who stood, unmoving, in the corner of Thomas’s eye. He didn’t acknowledge Thomas at all—he didn’t even acknowledge himself. He just stood there silently, gazing into nothingness. Completely still.

Thomas couldn’t be sure, but he was nearly certain he didn’t have any dreams last night, assuming he was awake now. He had a vague memory that might have been him turning off his alarm, but maybe he was just inserting false memories.

_Does it really matter?_

He supposed it didn’t. Or rather, even if it did, he didn’t care. _Couldn’t_ care. The fact was that regardless if he were awake or asleep, he wasn’t doing anything, and he was enjoying it. Tolerating it?

He was pretty sure he was awake, but he had no way of knowing how much time had passed because his body refused to turn it’s head to see his clock. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t care enough to force himself to.

Thomas could feel his chest moving as he breathed. If he closed his eyes and really listened, he could hear his blood pumping through his body, a kind of _whooshing_ sound.

_I’m hungry_, Thomas thought vaguely. _I should get up and make something to eat._

Virgil standing in the corner angled his head slightly, as if he were listening to something—he must have sensed the impulse. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and so Thomas forgot the thought. Thomas found himself hoping he’d already lazed the entire day away, because if it were night again he could fall back asleep and no one could berate him for it.

_Sleep_…

“Thomas?”

Thomas sat bolt upright in bed, and was immediately encountered with a head rush. _Great_. The voice that had spoken in question belonged to Logan, who had only appeared just now by the bedroom door—and he wasn’t alone. Roman stood shoulder to shoulder with him, and together they just seemed so _sure_ and _present_ that Thomas imagined he could feel Virgil disappear a little.

“What?” Thomas yawned. Blinked.

“You have to get up now,” Logan said.

“Why?”

Logan stopped, baffled. “Because you just _do_, Thomas.”

In the corner of the room, a shadow shifted. The shadow was Virgil, and his body language was relaying a message that seemed very clear to Thomas:

_Why are they here?_

Thomas frowned. “Why are you here?”

Logan’s eyes slid to the back of the room for a brief moment,

“Because you need somebody to keep you productive.”

Virgil lowered his head; Thomas sensed his disapproval. He didn’t dare move, for fear of… what exactly? No, not fear: apathy.

There was something else was bugging him. Or, more accurately, bugging Virgil. Thomas took a moment to decipher his emotions.

_Roman. Roman. Roman. Roman. Roman. Roman. Roman_, he found himself thinking. Something about Roman was really upsetting Virgil. Thomas’s skin prickled; he didn’t like that at all.

“Why are _you_ here?” Thomas asked, this time directed at Roman. Roman gave Logan a not-so-subtle sideways glance; Logan gave him a not-so-subtle kick to the shin. Roman cleared his throat and, ignoring Thomas’s question, declared,

“Get up!”

Something strange happened then: Thomas actually did it. His hands pushed back his covers and pushed him upwards and his legs steadied beneath him and even though Thomas didn’t know _why_ he was doing it, he was doing it anyway. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Virgil looked downright murderous. Both seemed to be directing their respective emotion towards Roman.

“Fine,” Virgil spat, speaking for the first time that morning. His voice was like frostbite, and it stung. “Let’s _do_ something today. What did you have in mind, _Logic_?” There was something dark and unfamiliar in the way he said ‘Logic’, but Thomas wasn’t clear-headed enough to dissect it.

Logan bravely withstood Virgil’s deadly tone, and responded with measured coolness,

“I only propose Thomas performs a single productive activity. Consider this: two hours of editing.”

Virgil’s lip curled up in a sneer, but Logan held up a hand. “I wasn’t finished. Two hours of editing, and the remainder of the day belongs to you, to do with it what you will.”

Virgil’s hostile front faltered. “The rest of the day?” He looked like he couldn’t tell whether to relax, or tense up more.

“Two hours of work,” Logan promised. “Dispersed throughout the day, or all at once, the choice is yours.”

“All at once,” Virgil said immediately. A pause. “Can we do it after breakfast though?”

It was clear Logan was trying to keep his emotions out of the discussion, but it was hard not to notice how positively smug he was about Virgil’s change in attitude. “Of course.”

“I’ll get out of your way then.” Virgil dipped his head and sunk out.

Logan turned to Roman like a child looking to a parent for praise after a good performance. Roman looked hesitantly optimistic.

Thomas wondered if Logan had questioned how uncharacteristically passive Virgil had seemed when he left. He wondered if Roman had noticed the way Virgil’s dark eyes had lingered on him, like Roman was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Thomas wondered if either of them felt slow the same way he did—like this was still half a dream, not entirely real. And when Thomas got ready for the day and put on a jacket indoors, he wondered if Roman and Logan felt as cold as he did.

He didn’t think so. And the scary part was that he didn’t even care.

* * *

When ‘Roman' appeared on the screen of the television, Deceit laughed out loud. Even Virgil raised his eyebrows—the likeness was impressive. He wouldn’t be fooling anybody in the Basement—if only because Virgil and Deceit had context—but Thomas and Depression would be none the wiser. Hopefully.

That meant they still had a problem they needed to take care of. The real Roman was nowhere to be seen, and Depression was walking the knife’s edge between settling down and tearing the entire headspace apart. Virgil had never seen him so unstable before. They were all lucky Logan was thinking on his toes—as long as Thomas didn’t suspect foul play, Depression would have to find some other way to gather emotional momentum. _This won’t be like the Incident_, Virgil assured himself. _This time, we know better. Don’t we?_

“We still have a problem,” Deceit echoed Virgil’s thoughts. “We have to decide what to do with _you_.”

_Wait, what?_

“I can’t believe I was such an _idiot_,” Deceit seethed, doing away with the pitiful fibs he used to keep face. “But it can never be anything simple, can it? Depression can’t ever just be feeling destructive and pretending he’s not, _no_, it has to be Anxiety in disguise!”

Virgil opened his mouth to speak, but Deceit barreled ahead, ignoring him,

“‘Oh, but Deceit, how did you know it was me?’ Honestly, Virgil! Apparently I have the brain capacity of a baboon, but I’m not a rock! Depression wasn’t even _trying_ to be you anymore! And to think I was trying to give you space because I thought you were Depression feeling under-the-weather! Well, you know what they say—you can’t spell ‘sympathetic’ without ‘pathetic’.”

“Who says that?”

“I do!” Deceit snapped. “Now, you’d better start filling me in right about now, or—so help me Abagnale Junior—I will force it out of you myself.”

The jig was up. Virgil let Depression’s clothes dissolve from his body, re-donning the black hoodie until he could retrieve the purple one. When the eyeshadow reappeared below his eyes, Virgil couldn’t help but feel a little bit better. It was comforting to know that he could be himself again.

Deceit put his face in his hands, “Asking questions, _caring_ about things,” He muttered. “Of course you’re not Depression. You were _taking initiative_, for crying out loud.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not incompetent.” Virgil patted Deceit awkwardly on the shoulder, “Depression and I exchanged energies, so there was really no way to tell us apart until it wore off.”

“Thanks,” Deceit said drily.

There was a moment of tense silence.

“So,” Deceit shrugged him off and leaned back against the wall. “What happened?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you down here?”

“Oh.” Virgil’s face twisted. “It’s kind of a long story, actually.”

“It’s really not.” Deceit tilted his head to one side, “You just don’t want to tell me because you’re afraid, or maybe embarrassed. Don’t lie to me, Virgil.”

Virgil felt a snarky reply crawl up his throat, but he bit it down. Deceit was right.

“Thomas experiences depressive episodes,” He said instead. “He started having them when he was in middle school. But, if there’s one thing we learned from the Incident, it’s that strong emotions is what Depression needs to get his engines going. After I subdued him the first time, we came up with a plan to prevent him from getting too powerful and destabilizing—we would trade places. His ‘job’ gets more or less completed, and we go through the episode with minimum collateral damage. The energy exchange is supposed to keep him as neutral as possible during the episode, and there are more Lights than there are Darks to keep an eye on him.”

Deceit chewed on this information for a moment. “That does fill some gaps in my timeline,” He finally said. “That leads us to the next question, then. What’s wrong with him?”

Him, as in Depression. Virgil had no desire to think about the disaster he had just seen on-screen, and the mere mention of Depression brought back all the accompanying uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” Virgil muttered. “It’s not a perfect system; he hits rough patches sometimes. But this is the worst I’ve seen him in years. I don’t know what could have caused a reaction like this.”

Deceit raised an eyebrow. “Well, I think it’s safe to say it might have had something to do with Roman.”

Virgil was reminded of the Imagination, cold and untouchable. “Yeah,” He agreed. “I’d say so.”

Deceit breathed a deep sigh and stood up straight. He was silent for a moment as he picked a small piece of lint off his cape and flicked it to the ground. Then, he said,

“Fine, then. What do you propose we do?”

Virgil pressed his fingers against his temples for a moment—he could feel a headache coming on. “I’m not sure,” He answered honestly. “But we should probably go Upstairs and see if we can take care of this ourselves. We’ll have to wait for REM to start up before we go anywhere—we can’t let Thomas know about this. Any emotional disturbance could be the thing that sends Depression over the edge.”

“Duly noted,” Deceit said, a little too late.

Virgil paused. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” The response was immediate, clear, and to the point. It was a lie.

“If you have something to say, say it now. I don’t want to get blindsided by anything unexpected just because you were more chicken than snake.”

Deceit scowled. “It’s not like that.”

“Just spit it out already,” Virgil ignored the look.

“Look,” Deceit shifted, “I like Depression. Really, I do—he makes me more useful than anybody but Roman. But I won’t confront him when he’s in a mood. Last time…” He trailed off. Shook his head. “Well, some nights, I can still feel that cold around my neck.” He shivered, “Depression is rarely cruel, but when he is, he is crueler than most. Corruption is simply too risky. I don’t want to give him that kind of power over me.”

Virgil wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that. During the Incident, he’d had his own part to play. He hadn’t seen much of Deceit, but he’d heard stories from the others. Hearing it from the source himself though, that was different. He was telling the truth, and Virgil knew because he could feel the fear in his words.

The Incident had affected them all in different ways. They’d all been marred by memories, serving as reminders of what had happened—and warnings of what could still happen if they weren’t careful. Virgil knew how to be careful, but the past frightened him all the same. He knew Deceit’s fear—he lived with it every day. He couldn’t force him to face something like that in good conscience. So he said simply,

“I don’t need you to face him, I just need somebody on my side.”

Deceit breathed out heavily. His distress was so strong that Virgil could _taste_ it, but finally, he nodded.

“Alright.”

Another lie. It wasn’t ‘alright’, but somehow, Virgil felt his luck was turning. They were going to be okay.

They had to be okay.

* * *

They had a plan. A shoddy one, maybe, but a plan nonetheless, and the plan was this: when night fell and Thomas went to sleep, they would travel into Logan’s room, because that was the one place in the Upstairs headspace they were certain nobody would be. They would sneak out when the coast was clear and do some sniffing around to assess the situation, and from there round up the other Sides and decide how to deal with Depression. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all they could do with what little information they had.

“That doesn’t sound risky at _all_,” Is what Deceit said when Virgil went to clear the plan with him.

“Most of it was your idea!” Is what Virgil retorted.

“Touché,” Deceit conceded.

Virgil collapsed on the couch, exhausted from the mental strain he was under and restless because of his racing thoughts. His leg bounced. He picked at his nails. He worried his bottom lip, and, when he bit down too hard and drew blood, worried it some more. With a sigh, Virgil pushed himself up and began pacing the living room floor.

_What am I doing?_ His thoughts were an endless maze of fears, both rational and irrational, and he didn’t know what to believe. Was it hot in here?

“That’s enough of that,” Deceit’s voice startled Virgil out of his trance. It took a moment for him to remember where he was and what he was doing, and another to realize Deceit’s hand was on his arm, forcing him to still.

“You’re going to ruin the carpet,” Deceit muttered, nodding towards the already-forming path Virgil had thoughtlessly stomped into the ground. He un-scuffed the tracks as best he could.

“Sorry. It’s just—can’t we do something other than just sit and wait? Sticking around here doing nothing is making me antsy.”

Deceit threw back his head and groaned theatrically. “_Fine_. What do you need to do now?”

Virgil thought for a moment. “We could head back to the Imagination,” He suggested. “Inspect the area, see what we can see. Maybe we’ll learn something useful.”

Deceit frowned. “I’ll come, but I’ll leave the detective work to you. If you need my help, you’ll probably be able to find me several yards away from anything remotely cold.”

Virgil shrugged, “Deal.” He headed towards the door, reached out his hand, turned the handle…

“_What the hell?_”

Virgil slammed the door, shattering icicles that were already beginning to form along the doorframe. The shards next to Virgil melted, but the ones farther away stayed intact. Deceit yelped, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the couch.

“The ice—it’s _everywhere_,” Virgil spat. “It must have spread from the Imagination. We need a new plan.”

Deceit’s eyes were as wide as saucer plates, “What do we do?”

“Uh—“ Virgil ran his hands through his hair. His heart was beating way too fast, but now wasn’t exactly the time for breathing exercises, he had to think. _We’ve already made contact with the ice, which means we’re both susceptible to corruption. So no big moves like disappearing or summoning; exercising influence gives the disease something to attach to. Taking that into account…_

“—Okay, okay, okay,” Virgil turned to Deceit, “You’re the priority here. As long as I keep myself under control, I’m hoping I can avoid being corrupted, and you’re a valuable asset to Depression. Reason says we split up by foot and each find a place to lay low—we don’t know if Depression will be looking for us Upstairs, so it’s best we stay in the Basement until we know what he’s planning.”

“_What?_” Deceit shrieked. “You can’t be serious! You can’t leave me!”

“_I won’t protect you from him if it means risking myself_,” Virgil snapped, and he didn’t have time to worry about the tempest tongue in his words because fear was a motivator Deceit needed right now. “_Believe me, between an unstable Depression and an unstable me, you’re going to want to choose him._”

There was a pause, and the silence was filled by the foreboding crackle of forming ice just outside the door. If Virgil had heard stories of what had happened to Deceit during the Incident, it didn’t hold a candle to the stories Deceit heard of _him_ during the Incident.

“Okay.” Deceit’s voice was small, “We split up.”

Virgil sighed, “Great.”

Then the door exploded into a million shards of wood and frost. Virgil barely had time to cover his face before the debris ripped through the fabric of his sleeves, tearing into the skin of his forearm. He brushed the wound with his fingers—it stung, but it was only a graze. There were more important people to worry about.

“Deceit!” He shouted. A thin fog was rising through the air—the room felt hazy; dreamlike.

“I’m okay.” Deceit stood from where he had fallen, shaken but seemingly uninjured. Seemingly.

“Deceit—” Virgil’s voice was low, “—your arm.”

Deceit’s eyes darted down to look. A six-inch sliver of ice had punctured clean through his sleeve, and was now lodged inside his forearm. Scarlet blood slipped down the icicle and stained the carpet. Deceit’s breathing stuttered.

“Virgil—what do I do, Virgil? Please, help.”

“I need you to pull it out, Deceit,” Virgil tried to keep his voice calm, but his heart was pounding in his throat. “But you need to hurry. Can you do that?”

Deceit gripped one gloved hand around the end of the icicle and hissed. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, but if you don’t pull it out now, it’s going to corrupt you.”

Deceit was breathing slow now. “Corrupt me?” He echoed. His voice dropped to a whisper, “But I don’t want it to hurt.” His eyes were glazed over.

“It has to,” Virgil pleaded. But Deceit wasn’t moving anymore, and his breath wasn’t showing—he was just as cold as the air now. Frost was forming in spider-web patterns along the skin above his collar, and what little color he had was leeching out of his face. Even the sickly yellow of his snake eye was fading, fading, until it was the empty color of dust—wavering gray, unfocused.

Then he smiled—a crooked little smile.

“Too late, too late,” Deceit crooned softly, swaying on his feet. “You could not save your friends, and you will not save yourself. Take comfort in this, Virgil; forsaking choice lifts the burden of decision.”

Deceit’s eyes rolled back in his head, and as he crumpled, his body disappeared.

The blood on the carpet remained. The fog was thick and heavy; icicles hung from the ceiling and rose from the floor. And though Virgil shivered, he didn’t feel anything. Something was wrong.

Virgil looked down at the ruined sleeve of his hoodie, at his scraped-up arm. The skin was pale and tinged with blue around the edges; the wound sparkled with frost.

_I could stop this_, he thought.

He could melt the ice and put an end to all of it right now. He could take out Depression before he corrupted anybody else, before it affected Thomas permanently. But Virgil knew what would happen if he broke right now. It wasn’t something he could take back.

Deceit was right. He hadn’t saved his friends. But he wouldn’t be the one to hurt them.

And so he did not save himself. He swallowed the resolve rising in his chest and let the ice split his veins, the cold fill his body and envelop him completely. Virgil stumbled, tottered, and fell as his legs gave out beneath him. There was a sickening _thunk!_, and Virgil stared—he’d fallen on a stalagmite, his chest was run straight through. It didn’t matter anyway—he was too far gone to feel any pain. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, searching. No matter how tempting it sounded, he couldn’t surrender completely, or Depression would be able to control him and there would be no telling what could happen. No, Virgil had to hold on, if only by a thread. And although he couldn’t do anything while frozen in the Basement, that didn’t mean he could do nothing at all: he still had a job to do—a duty, a purpose—and he would perform it to the best of his ability, even if he had to do it when he was like this.

Finally, Virgil sensed the thing he was looking for. A faint flicker, but present nonetheless. With all the precision he possessed, he clung to it: hard enough to keep it, but gentle enough to stay in control of himself. The dream line was his one hope to contact Thomas and the other Sides while in his current position, however unconventional the method. He could only hope there were still other Sides left to come to his aid.

It was dark. Virgil’s thoughts were picking up speed, and so he willed the ice to dig deeper. A new chill bit into him, and his mind cleared. He only had the concentration to stay awake, and stay with the dream line. He had to forget everything else. He grit his teeth and endured, waiting for Thomas to fall asleep.

It was so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are any of y'all mainstream weebs?? Cuz I'm finally caught up with the mha manga and I am ready to Talk about it


	8. Patton, Tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals week :)))))))

Patton startled awake at 10:00 AM—far too late—with one thought in mind.

_Something happened last night._

Of course, Patton, being Patton, felt bad for thinking that immediately afterwards. But he couldn’t help arriving at that same conclusion no matter how many different ways he tried to approach this inexplicable feeling.

It just seemed… colder than usual.

His troubled thoughts persisted as he rolled out of bed, standing upright and looking at himself in the mirror. He frowned at his reflection, and his reflection frowned back at him.

_Your hair is messy_, a little voice whispered.

“My hair is fine,” He told the mirror, “It just needs a little combing, is all.” He took out the brush Roman had lended to him and ran it through his hair until it was smoothed down. He grabbed his glasses, only to realize that one of the lenses was badly cracked. Another symptom of whatever had transpired the night before?

_Maybe you’re just clumsy,_ the voice told him. _You probably broke them yourself._

“It doesn’t matter,” He told the mirror. He ran his thumb over the fractured glass, and it repaired instantly under his touch. He smiled, and said to his reflection, “I’m good at fixing things.” The reassurance did make him feel a little better.

He got dressed in his regular wear, finally donning the cat hoodie Logan had gifted to him. It was still as soft as it was when it was first given to him—wearing it never failed to brighten his mood, and today was no exception. He found the energy to muster a smile, and just doing that made it a little easier to maintain it.

Patton poked his head out the door. Nothing seemed out of place or strange, so he let himself relax a little bit and headed for the living room. Normally, he would go straight up to check on Thomas, but he didn’t want to startle anyone—especially Depression. Hopefully somebody else would be in the living room, and they could fill him in on what he missed while he slept in.

It seemed Lady Fortuna was smiling down on him today, because as luck would have it, the first thing he saw when he entered the living room were Logan and Roman’s heads sticking out from the other side of the couch.

“Hey, guys!” He said cheerfully.

Logan flinched like someone anticipating a blow, and Roman shrieked so high that the lens of Patton’s glasses fractured again. It would almost be funny, except Patton felt really bad about it.

_So much for not startling anyone_, the little voice whispered.

“Good morning to you, too.” Patton rubbed a finger over the lens to repair it for the second time in as many minutes.

Roman put a hand to his chest, breathing heavily. “Oh, Patton, it’s just you.” He looked at Logan, and Logan nodded.

Roman’s prince costume fell away, revealing a rumpled vest and slacks. Out of a pocket, the glint of a watch’s chain shone.

“Habit!” Patton blinked, then broke into a smile. “I haven’t seen you Upstairs since Thomas was a kid! What’s the occasion?”

Habit gave him a tired smile. “Refer to Logan for that—it was his idea. But I’m glad to see you, too.”

“I brought him Upstairs because we needed a Roman,” Logan wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.

“A Roman?” Patton’s heart sank. “Where’s _our_ Roman?”

“In his room.”

“Can’t we just—“

“—The door is locked,” Logan interrupted.

There was a bitter taste in Patton’s mouth, now. “Locked? How is that possible?”

“That’s not all,” Habit said. “The Imagination is completely frozen over. There’s no activity whatsoever.”

Patton’s stomach twisted. If the Imagination was frozen, then Roman really was out of commission.

“Habit seemed to work as a stand-in today, but we can’t be sure how long it will delay Depression.”

“Logan gave me the run-down on the situation,” Habit assured Patton, “I know who’s who.”

Patton chewed his lip. “So, what do we do?”

“Actually,” Logan admitted, “We were waiting for you before we tried anything. I believe you will be both an asset to creating an effective plan, and an invaluable source of information relating to Thomas’s emotional state and triggers.”

“Huh?”

“We wanted to wait for you to show up because you can do stuff that we can’t,” Habit offered.

“I suppose that works,” Logan muttered. “But, I did formulate the basis of a plan, which is as follows: firstly, free Roman; next, retrieve Virgil; then, explain the situation to Thomas and use each of our expertise to help him process the information; and lastly, deal with Depression, if we have to.”

“That was the _basis_?” Patton asked, astounded.

“That’s what _I_ said,” Habit nodded.

“So,” Patton began, “Breaking down that plan into parts, the our first objective is to free Roman, right?”

“That is correct. However, I am unsure as how to go about freeing him—I tried several different methods, but I suspect a more emotional catalyst may be required. Would you, figuratively, ‘give it a shot’?”

The hallways seemed colder than normal today. Maybe it was just Patton’s imagination, but knowing what he knew now, he was beginning to think there was something else to that notion.

Roman’s door was as intricate and immaculate as ever, but when Patton reached for the shining golden handle, the cold bit into his skin and he flinched away.

“This just happened last night?” He asked.

“…Yes,” Logan said, after a moment’s hesitation. Patton didn’t miss it.

“What’s wrong?”

Logan clenched and unclenched his jaw, then said, “This is my fault. I forced them together last night because I was frustrated with their feud, and I wanted them to ‘talk it out’. Clearly it did not go as well as I hoped it would.”

Patton pondered this. Then, setting a hand on Logan’s shoulder, said, “You’re not the one to blame. We’re all responsible for our own actions. Roman chose to antagonize Depression. You chose to be proactive and prioritize Thomas. Depression chose to do this.” Patton gestured to the locked door. “You can’t fault yourself for other people’s choices.” He nudged Logan with a small smile, “It’s irrational.”

Logan exhaled slowly. “You’re right,” He murmured. “Let’s continue.”

“I think,” Patton said, “The reason you couldn’t get through the door is because this is an emotional barrier. Or at least, it’s charged with emotional energy.”

“How can you tell?” Habit asked.

“I can feel it,” Patton said simply. “I could feel huge amounts of negativity through the doorknob alone. The barrier is probably feeding off of Roman’s feelings. That’s a problem, because the worse he feels, the stronger the barrier gets.”

“And the stronger the barrier gets, the worse he feels.” Habit’s eyes widened in understanding. “So you’re saying it’s a cycle. And the longer he’s in there, the harder it’s going to be to get him out.”

“Yeah,” Patton murmured.

“So how _do_ we get him out?” Logan asked impatiently.

“Well, luckily this has only been going on for hours, at most. With enough focus, I could probably slip in and grab him.”

A sudden and unwelcome thought came to him. Patton frowned. “But there’s another problem. Notice how the depressive energy is only in _this_ room—how it’s not spreading?”

“What about it?” Habit gave the door a suspicious look.

“That’s because it has something to focus on—an epicenter, you might call it. If we take away the epicenter, it could go looking for a new one. It could start to grow, I mean.”

“So how do we prevent that?” Habit asked.

Patton glanced at Logan, who was staring at him with an on-edge intensity. There was a long moment of silent understanding between them.

“Patton means to take Roman’s place,” Logan finally said.

“You can’t do that!” Habit protested.

“I’m not happy about it either,” Patton said softly, “But that’s really the only thing we can do.”

“Fine, I’ll argue this logically,” Habit huffed. “If you stay in there and we get Roman out, then there is no net gain. We’ve just gained a party member and lost another. We don’t get anything out of it, we’ve just swapped team members.”

Patton tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Swapping team members is the point. Don’t you remember phase two of Logan’s plan? Someone has to go get Virgil.”

“Then why not the three of us?”

“I cannot go into the subconscious mind,” Logan said. “I mean that entirely literally. It will not accept my presence—every time I’ve tried to enter, I am returned to my own room.”

“And I haven’t been to the Basement in years,” Patton pointed out. “I’d hardly be the best choice to go looking for one little Side in a place as big as that—I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Logan and I aren’t compatible with the Basement, kiddo. Roman is the best option we’ve got.”

“Then why can’t I just go get Virgil myself?” Habit argued.

“We need somebody to act in place of whichever Side is missing, and you’re the most effective stand-in we have,” Logan answered, saving Patton the trouble.

“But Thomas wouldn’t realize it if I’m missing, since he’s never seen me. Couldn’t I take Roman’s place instead?” Habit tried.

“Your tenacity is remarkable,” Logan commented.

“I’m afraid not, kiddo,” Patton sighed. “The depressive energy is using emotion to sustain itself. You’re less emotional than Roman, while I’m more emotional. With you, it might spread. With me, it definitely won’t. Besides, you’re more important than you give yourself credit for. Thomas needs you.”

Logan cleared his throat lightly.

“I… am not pleased with this resolution, but I will recognize it as our most strategic course of action. Patton, as both a show of gratitude, and a demonstration of how highly I value you and your mental fortitude, I would like to give you a… hug.”

“A hug—?” Patton barely got the words out before Logan gingerly put his arms over Patton’s shoulders and squeezed. A lump rose in Patton’s throat, and he squeezed back.

“Thanks, Logan,” He whispered.

They stood like that for awhile, but eventually the hug had to end. As soon as they separated, Habit wrapped his arms around Patton’s torso and squeezed like a wrestler going for the win.

“You’d better still be okay by the time we come back to get you,” Habit whispered fiercely. He let go and stepped away.

Patton took a few deep breaths in, then stepped forwards and rested his hand on the doorknob once again. It was cold—cold enough to be painful, and then some. He kept holding on as the chill slowly began to seep through his body. It hurt, at first. Then, after awhile, the pain dissolved into a low ache, a pulsing just before all feeling fell away, and he was left numb.

The doorknob turned under his grip. It was strangely dark inside Roman’s room—as if there were not only the absence of light, but the exceeding presence of shadow and darkness. Patton stepped through the curtain of gloom.

The light emanating from the door certainly helped with visibility, but not by much. Outlines of furniture and shifting fog forced upon Patton silhouettes of monsters and filled him with a looming sense of dread. The room was coated in ice and frost; it crackled and crunched under every step. He felt as though he were walking underwater. Like the world around him moved in slow motion.

“Roman?” Patton called out, but it was as though the fog and shadows swallowed up the sound. “Roman?” He tried again, louder, to no avail. He kept walking.

_Don’t you want to rest? _The little voice had returned. _It’s so dark, and you’re so sleepy._

Patton _did_ want to rest. But he knew if he stopped now, he would never free Roman, and this whole thing would all be for naught.

_Don’t you know how Depression works?_ The little voice continued. _Roman isn’t going to want to talk to you, and he’s certainly not going to leave. You’re wasting your time._

_Shut up,_ Patton told the voice. At least he knew the voice was wrong about one thing—maybe Roman wouldn’t want to leave, but he would do it regardless. He was chivalrous like that.

Patton’s train of thought was broken when he accidentally bumped his hip into a large piece of furniture. Upon closer inspection, it was Roman’s bed—king-sized, naturally. But Roman wasn’t in it. Patton rounded one corner of the bed, then another… _There!_ Roman was curled up on the carpet, facing the wall. Patton nearly tripped over his own feet getting to him.

“Roman? Roman!” Patton shook him, but Roman only breathed out a pitiful croak. Patton rolled him over. Roman’s eyes were dull and glazed over with frost. Then, Patton noticed something he hadn’t before: an icicle lodged dagger-style in his chest. Patton winced—he knew what he had to do, but he _really_ didn’t want to do it.

“Roman,” he said softly, “I’m going to pull this icicle out, okay? It’s going to hurt, but I don’t want you to be afraid.”

A soft whine of protest came from Roman’s lips. Patton reached down and gripped the icicle, and the whine got louder.

“Like a Band-Aid,” Patton whispered to himself. “One… two…”

He ripped the icicle out, and Roman erupted in a bloodcurdling scream.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Patton said over and over again, feeling as though if he said it enough times, everything would be better.

Roman heaved a ragged breath, then another, than another. At least he wasn’t screaming anymore.

“P-Patton,” Roman’s voice was hoarse, and so low Patton could hardly hear it.

“It’s me, Roman. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Roman slowly propped himself on one of his arms and sat up. “You’re going to… save me?”

“Yeah, Roman. I’m here to save you.”

Roman’s breathing was a little more even now. “I guess… even princes need to be saved… now and again.”

“That’s right.” Patton smiled. “Can you stand?”

“I need… a minute.”

They sat together, the silence only broken by Roman’s heavy breaths and the soft crackle of frost.

“Logan and Habit are in the hall,” Patton said.

“…Habit?”

“We needed a replacement-you so Thomas wouldn’t get suspicious, and Logan didn’t want Deceit taking advantage of a bad situation.”

“Mmm,” Roman took a deep breath, “That was a good idea.” He and Habit didn’t get along well, but Roman wasn’t so arrogant that he would refuse an ally’s help.

Patton giggled, “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that.”

A faint smile played across Roman’s lips. Then, it fell away,

“What do we do now?” He murmured.

“Logan has a plan,” Patton assured. “Part one was rescuing you. We need your help for part two, if you’re up for it.”

Roman shifted and winced, but smiled all the same. “I will always accept the challenge of a valiant quest. Now, what part am I to play in all this?”

Patton bit his lip. “We need you to go get Virgil. And… I didn’t tell the others this, but I’m afraid that it might be… hazardous.”

“What makes you say that?”

“According to Habit, the Imagination was frozen over when he showed up here. Probably because you were frozen. But unlike you in this room, the depressive energy in the Basement probably had nowhere to focus on.”

“You think it spread?”

Patton wrung his hands together. “I hope it didn’t. But… be safe, okay? Keep an eye out. The Imagination is probably thawing now that you’re awake, but if it spread, we don’t know what it could still be attached to.”

“Duly noted.” Roman grabbed the edge of the bed and hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt, “Let’s get out of here.” Patton followed suit with a noise of vague affirmation.

With Roman, the trip back to the door was significantly easier. In no time at all, the glowing silhouette of the door was in their sights.

Patton hesitated at the doorframe.

“After you,” He eventually said with a smile.

“If you insist,” Roman chuckled. He passed through the door, and Patton saw his smile widen as he escaped the oppressive influence of the barrier. That alone helped him feel a little better.

_You’re doing the right thing,_ he thought to himself.

Patton reached out beyond the barrier, grasped the doorknob, and pulled the door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i add too much exposition and don't edit it out


	9. Run, Roman, Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
People get stabbed :))

The first thing Roman thought upon escaping his cursed room was: _I never knew warmth could feel this good_.

Logan and Habit stood in the hallway, just as Patton said they would be, looking strangely somber.

“I’m glad to see you two,” Roman admitted.

The door closed behind him. Roman turned to smile at Patton, but he wasn’t there.

“What…?” Roman tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. Was it locked?

“You won’t be able to get in,” Logan said from behind him.

“But Patton’s still inside,” Roman frowned. “We need to get him out.”

A hand on his shoulder gave him pause. “If there is no epicenter, the ice will spread,” Habit said gently.

Roman stepped away from the door, feeling a cocktail of emotions dominated by a sense of betrayal. He shook Habit’s hand off his shoulder.

“This was his idea, wasn’t it?”

Habit shrugged helplessly. “It was the only real solution.”

Roman chuckled without mirth. “I should have known,” He muttered. “That self-sacrificing softie.”

“Did Patton tell you about your part in the plan?” Logan, calm and collected as always, took the lead.

“Yeah,” Roman ground out. “Go fetch Virgil, whatever.”

“I need you to take this seriously, Roman,” Logan snapped. Roman blinked. Logan rubbed his temples. “It is very likely we will need Virgil’s help to free Patton. More than that, you remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

_Last time_… Roman had thought Virgil was menacing from the very start, and the Incident hadn’t done that impression any favors. They were on relatively good terms now, but…

Roman shivered.

“We can’t let things get out of hand again,” Logan said in a steely tone. “There’s no telling what could happen.”

“…Yeah,” Roman finally said. “Okay. Understood, teach.”

The lights above them dimmed. Habit glanced around.

“Depression must have put Thomas to sleep. Five o’clock in the evening—what a time for a nap.”

“A nap…” Logan murmured. Suddenly, “Habit,” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Change into Patton. _Now_.”

Habit asked no questions, and an apparition of Patton stood before them in an instant. The floorboards in the living room creaked, and Roman’s breath caught in his throat. Logan had realized it sooner than he had: if Thomas was asleep, then naturally Depression would return to the headspace.

“Roman,” Logan continued in a low voice, “Get out of here.”

Roman looked back and forth between Logan and the end of the hallway, eyes wide. He didn’t want to abandon them, but what choice did he have? Patton had freed him from his room so that he could save Virgil, but it would all be for nothing if he got caught by Depression now.

“Go!” Logan demanded. Roman sank down and reappeared in the one room he knew Depression wouldn’t be in—Logan’s bedroom. Not even Logan used his room. Roman collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily. He fully intended to go find Virgil, but there was still a slowly-healing stab wound between his ribs that he needed to tend to, and lots of emotions he needed to process.

Patton had removed the icicle, but the sluggishness in his head and the ache in his bones would linger for awhile. Such was the way of Depression’s venom. With enough determination he could power through it, but the real problem was the wound itself. Luckily the short time he’d spent in his own room had aided the regeneration process, but it was still only half-healed, and Roman didn’t think he had the leisure time to sit and wait for it to entirely fix all by itself. He supposed he could try and use his creative energy to seal it, but in this state it would only end up draining him. Instead, he used his energy to conjure something relatively simple—a first aid kit.

Being the adventurous prince, this wasn’t the first time he’d been stabbed; he knew his way around the block by now. He took a few minutes and patched himself up to the best of his ability.

His heart twisted painfully at the memory of Patton at the door. _“After you,”_ he’d said.

_I’m really gonna give Patton a piece of my mind once I rescue him,_ he thought.

But first, he had to come up with a plan. Since he wasn’t a Dark Side, he couldn’t naturally appear in the Basement—he had to actually travel to get there. But the door to the Basement was out in the hall and a ways away, and to reach it he would have to risk encountering Depression.

He glanced at the door. There had to be something going on out there, right? Roman scooted across the floor and put his ear to the door.

Someone was talking, but Roman couldn’t tell who. He closed his eyes and tried to make out the words.

“…_What… …last… …you…”_ Someone said.

_Damn it! I can hardly hear anything they say._ Roman looked around, but it didn’t seem like there was anything else he could use. He laid a hand on the doorknob. He was going to have to take a gamble, and hope Depression wasn’t looking his way. He turned the knob _ever so slightly_, and pulled the tiniest bit. The door made a small squeak that made Roman’s stomach drop into his feet, but luckily nobody but him seemed to hear it, for the conversation out in the hall that he could now understand clearly didn’t falter in the slightest.

“…Will never understand how you can say you don’t have emotions, when you clearly care so much about things like this.” That uncaring voice was certainly Depression’s. “Do you know where he is?”

“Probably in his room,” Logan said coolly. “Where you left him, if you recall.”

Depression sighed, drawing it out for much longer than he needed to, and the room got a little chillier. “It’s like you think I’m an idiot. Logan, do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Of course I don’t,” Roman could practically hear the eye roll in Logan’s voice.

Something about Depression’s voice changed. “_Then why are you treating me like you do?”_

_Was his voice always so quiet?_ Roman’s eyelids drooped, then shot open a second later, his heart racing. He had to stay awake! If Depression could nearly put him to sleep with a sentence, then things were going downhill faster than they’d thought.

“Where is Roman?” Depression asked.

“I don’t… know,” Logan’s voice was newly heavy with exhaustion, “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“_Being difficult? Fine._”

Logan suddenly cried out, then something hit the floor. Roman didn’t have to see what was going on to know what just happened. The pool of dread in his stomach swelled. _We’re getting picked off one by one._

Depression sighed. “By the time you’re willing to cooperate, I probably won’t need you anymore. But I guess I’m still taking away Roman’s resources, which is good for me. You know, logically.”

_That bastard. _Roman ground his teeth together.

“And how about you, Habit? Sorry, I meant, _Patton_?” Depression continued. Roman’s heart sank further. This was all wrong—none of this was going according to plan!

Virgil be damned, Roman wasn’t going to let anyone else get hurt right in front of him when he could do something to stop it!

He staggered to his feet and barged out the door, drawing his sword as he stumbled into the living room.

The sword clattered to the ground. Roman took a halting step back, aghast, and Depression’s cold eyes latched onto him.

“That was easy,” He said.

Logan was on the ground. Habit leaned against the wall, eyes gray and glazed with frost. An icicle protruded through one side of his head and went out the other—his eyes found Roman’s lazily.

Depression got Habit first. _He tricked me_, Roman thought with a lurch.

“Looks like you’ve been had,” Habit drawled with a crooked smile. He swung down and snatched Roman’s sword off the ground. He inspected it. “Say, have you ever been stabbed with this?”

“Bad, Habit,” Depression scolded lightly. Habit laughed.

Roman took another step back.

“What, you’re going to make a break for it?” Habit eyed him skeptically. Roman hardly heard him, his heart was thumping so loud in his ears. He’d really backed himself into a corner this time.

Depression grew an icicle from his fingertips, and took a step forward.

Roman took a step back.

_Is this how it’s going to end?_ He thought, dazed. With no words, no weapon, and no dignity?

“_Coward,_” Depression said softly. He raised the icicle in the air…

…And the lights came back on.

“What?” Said Roman and Depression at the same time. All at once, Roman felt a tugging sensation in his gut—the familiar sensation of being summoned. He wasn’t about to waste this miracle. Roman dropped to the floor and vanished.

* * *

Roman rose up in Thomas’s living room, trembling like a leaf. Thomas was shivering, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated, sitting upright on the couch in a cold sweat.

“Roman,” He gasped.

“Breathe, Thomas,” Roman urged, as gently as he could. “What was that thing—? Oh, right, breathe in for four seconds, hold it for seven, breathe out for eight. Can you do that, Thomas? Can you breathe with me? That’s right—in for one, two, three, four—now hold for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—out for one, two three…”

A few excruciating minutes of heavy breathing and one glass of water later, Thomas finally seemed calm enough to talk.

“You had a bad dream?” Roman asked.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. He shook his head, “It wasn’t really intense, but it felt… dreadful. I’ve never had a nightmare that made _me_ feel like the bad guy before.”

“What?”

Thomas frowned. “Don’t you know what the dream was about? I thought you were in charge of that sort of thing.”

“I am.” Roman nodded, “But I can’t control everything—sometimes bad dreams slip through. Zeus knows I’d never give you a nightmare on _purpose_.”

Thomas mulled this over. “Hey, Roman?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“Is it possible for Sides other than you to give me dreams?”

“Well,” Roman frowned, “If another Side wants to use the Imagination or disrupt the dream line, there isn’t anything stopping them from doing so. I suppose the answer is: yes, the other Sides can give you dreams. In fact, Deceit often does—I think he enjoys it, but I can never get a straight answer out of that guy. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” Thomas turned away, “This is going to sound stupid, but this nightmare… I don’t know. I guess it felt like it was trying to tell me something.”

Roman’s instincts began tingling. “Well, tell me about this bad dream.”

Thomas shifted in his seat. “In this nightmare, I was trapped in this place that was really dark and cold. It kind of made me think of a prison, but I guess in my head I kept calling it the Basement.”

A chill ran up Roman’s spine.

“Even though I was alone, I was scared. It was like…” Thomas fidgeted again. “Something was wrong with me. That’s what it felt like. Something was wrong with me, but I couldn’t do anything about it. You know how sometimes in dreams, you just know things? In the nightmare, I knew if I escaped, people were going to get hurt.” Thomas pulled his legs closer to his chest. “I never want to feel like that again."

Roman swallowed around the lump in his throat to ask, “Was that all? Or was there anything more?”

Thomas looked at Roman, eyes wide. “So this dream _was_ trying to tell me something.”

“Now is not the time, Thomas,” Roman warned. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

“That’s all there was,” Thomas insisted. Then, he paused. “Roman, what’s going on?”

Roman turned away from Thomas’s intent gaze. “It’s not my place to tell you, and I have something that needs to be taken care of.”

“But there _is_ something going on, right? What did that dream mean, and why has everybody been so weird lately?” His eyes turned pleading. “Why do I feel so tired all the time? Is it all in my head?”

Roman’s heart softened. It was easy to forget that—despite the fact that everything the Sides were doing had Thomas’s well-being in mind—Thomas could still feel like he was alone. “It’s not in your head.”

Thomas’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Is there anything I can do?”

Roman thought for a moment. Depression couldn’t attack him with anything but words in the real world, but once he returned to the headspace, there was no telling what could happen. And with Logan and Patton incapacitated, and Habit in Depression’s clutches, Roman was at a serious disadvantage. He needed a way to reduce their numbers.

“You’re not going to like how this sounds,” Roman warned, “But I swear on my honor as a prince, there’s a good reason for it, alright?”

Thomas hesitated, but nodded.

“I need you to distract Virgil.”

Thomas paused. Rubbed his temples. Sighed. Then, after a long moment, finally said, “I trust you, Roman. But there’d better be a good explanation for this when this is all over.”

Roman nodded. “Thank you.”

Roman sunk down, and the last thing he heard before the living room disappeared was Thomas calling Virgil’s name.

* * *

Roman took a chance and rose up in the headspace living room. Luckily, both Habit and Depression were nowhere to be seen, along with Logan’s body. _They must have moved him_, Roman thought.

Since Depression was likely now Outside with Thomas, Roman’s main priority was avoiding Habit. He headed towards the Basement door slowly, making sure nobody was hiding around any corners. By the time he reached the door itself, his nerves were completely shot, but, hey—like Virgil said, better safe than sorry, right? Roman opened the door to the Basement.

Below the ledge of the door, there was the divide. It was smooth and black, and it shone like obsidian. It was undisturbed, but Roman felt as though it would ripple if he touched it.

There were no actual stairs to the Basement—if you wanted stairs, you had to conjure them up yourself, as Roman did oftentimes. If you couldn’t do that, then your only option was to jump, and hope you knew where you were when you ended up at the bottom. Only Dark Sides could appear in the Basement naturally. Roman found this completely unfair. He closed his eyes and called upon his creative savvy for something functional—he did love pizzaz where he could find it, but interior design wasn’t exactly the priority at the moment. When he opened his eyes, the outline of a plain, wooden staircase was already beginning to appear. In accordance with his will, this staircase would lead right to the Basement living room, which was where Virgil most likely was. Roman smirked in self-appreciation. Despite the situation, he had to admit: he was good.

“Hello, Roman.”

Roman stifled a shriek and tried to draw his sword before he remembered that Habit had it. In front of him, the weak staircase wavered and vanished.

“Wow,” Deceit said from beside him, “Jumpy today, aren’t we?”

“_Deceit?_” Roman stared at him, disbelievingly. “What are you doing here?” _Really? Out of all the times he could have shown up?_

Deceit donned an exaggeratedly wounded expression. “What, am I not welcome?”

“Okay, well, first of all: No, you’re not.” Roman turned back to the divide and conjured up the staircase again, willing it to gain presence. The outline strengthened a little. “And second of all, I’m kind of in the middle of something. You’re distracting me. Go away.”

“Ouch.”

Roman ignored him and poured his focus into the work before him. There was a moment of silence, and Roman felt an inkling of hope that Deceit had gotten bored and left, before that hope was crushed by Deceit saying,

“What are you doing?”

Roman scowled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“There’s no need to be a salty Sandra. What’s gotten you all worked up today?”

“Look, Two-Face,” Roman glanced at Deceit briefly, “Can’t you see that I’m busy? You can bother me another time.” _Another time when it’s less perilous to be out in the open like this,_ Roman finished in his head. The staircase was still translucent, but it was slowly yet surely gaining solidity.

Deceit face twitched in annoyance, but he smoothed it away quickly enough. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“What a shock,” Roman muttered.

“Have you seen Habit?” Deceit continued. Roman tensed. “I’ve been looking for him for the past few hours. I suspect he might have found his way here, for…” His lip curled, “Whatever reason.”

“Ah.” Did Roman’s voice sound higher than normal? He cleared his throat and tried again. “Erm… no, I haven’t seen him recently,” He lied.

The sugarcoat on Deceit’s words dissolved. “Oh,” He said flatly. Roman noticed Deceit’s hands were clasped behind his back. Had they been like that the entire time?

The staircase was nearly solid. Roman took a moment to look, really look, at Deceit. Deceit’s eyes remained fixated on the divide. Now that Roman thought about it, he seemed a little pale. Or rather, colorless.

His heart sank.

“Caught up, have we?” Deceit smiled coldly at the the divide. Roman glanced at the staircase. It was still see-through, but he bet it was strong enough hold him if he focused.

“You know, Roman,” Deceit continued, “I’d rather not hurt you.”

“Well,” Roman took the slightest step forwards, subtly testing his weight on the mostly-formed stairs, “Then we could both benefit from it if you let me go.”

Deceit looked at Roman sideways. His eyes were gray and cold. “If only I could, Your Majesty.”

Roman had to think of a way out of this, otherwise things were going to start falling apart, fast. _I have to get to Virgil_.

Virgil was trapped. He was walking the line between lucidity and corruption purely with his own willpower, and, based on the dream Thomas had, he might as well be a ticking time bomb if Roman didn’t rescue him soon. This _was_ a rescue mission, and Roman couldn’t afford any more setbacks.

Roman stared into the black divide.

“Hey, Deceit?”

Deceit looked at him quizzically.

“How long does it take to reach the bottom from here?”

“It feels like quite a long drop, but it’s not time-consuming. Why?”

_Hopefully, it’s long enough._

Roman put a hand on Deceit’s back, and pushed. Deceit stumbled, twisted, reached out—and fell. His mouth twisted into a sneer, then he fell through the divide and vanished. There was no ripple.

The staircase remained. Roman took one ginger step onto it, and it held. It wavered, but held. He took another step down, with the same result. _Okay_. If he could focus enough, he could make it all the way to the bottom. He was sure of it.

One step. Another. Then another, and another, and another. Roman picked up the pace a little—Deceit said the fall didn’t take long. He put down his foot a little too hard, and one stair disintegrated under his weight. Roman half-fell through the gap and barely caught himself on the step below. The wound in his chest sent a shock of pain through him with every heartbeat. He struggled to pull himself up, but his sash was caught on a jagged edge of wood. Roman tugged harder, and heard fabric ripping. He muttered a few choice words Patton would not have approved of, and tore himself free. The sash ripped completely in half and fell into the abyss.

Roman wasted no time in getting back up, but it seemed the fall wasn’t nearly as long as he’d hoped.

“_Roman,”_ Deceit’s voice snarled. The sound was impossibly loud, and it burrowed into Roman’s ears. The back of his neck prickled, and he shuddered.

Roman turned around to see Deceit thrust one arm out. An icicle was run through his forearm, and as Roman watched, it grew until it was the size of a spear. Deceit cracked a length of the icicle off on his knee and wielded it in his gloved hands. Roman’s eyes widened. Was he going to _throw_ that at him?

Roman turned and kept running, hyper-aware of his balance. One misstep could send him plunging into the void, and who knew where he’d end up if that happened? The divide was approaching fast—if Roman could make it through that, the Basement living room couldn’t be much farther.

“_Come now, Roman,_” Deceit hissed. “_I just want to talk._” His voice was sickly sweet venom, like honey with a hint of cyanide.

There was a great _crack!_ heard from behind him. Beneath him, the staircase shook, and Roman stumbled. He glanced behind him just long enough to see Deceit dislodge his weapon from the wooden steps. Large splinters marked the spot he’d struck. Deceit was no longer trying to get to Roman himself—_he was trying to break the staircase_.

Roman ran faster and plunged through the divide, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The stairs were even fainter in the subconscious, and he kept tripping over his own feet. Far below, the seemingly endless landscape morphed and shifted in hypnotic patterns, like a giant octopus stuck to the end of a kaleidoscope.

The staircase shuddered underneath him with every strike laid to it. Fracture lines appeared where Roman’s feet touched the steps. His legs burned and his lungs ached, and his wound pulsed with every breath, every movement.

_There!_ A ray of hope. In the distance, Roman saw that the staircase ended at a lone doorframe. _The Basement living room_, he thought_._ If he could make it there in time…

Before Roman could finish his thought, he was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a shattering dream. The steps rattled and cracked one last time, and the entire staircase vanished from underneath him. Roman could do nothing but fall into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating last week lmao luckily I have another short chapter right after this one that I'll post today too to make up for it


	10. A Short Update on How Virgil is Doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hint: he's not doing very well  
Warnings: blood mentions I guess

There was something in Virgil’s eye.

The dream was meant to be longer. He’d barely gotten out what he wanted to convey before he was interrupted. Hopefully Thomas still understood that something was wrong.

Virgil tried to blink, but his right eye wouldn’t close. He would normally try to prod at it, but his body was entirely numb. Experimentally, he tried to lift his arm. Nothing happened. He discarded that idea—he already had a pretty good idea of what it was, anyway.

The problem was that whatever was in his eye was really bothering him. No, the _real_ problem was not that there was something in his eye, it was that Virgil knew how to get rid of it. And he _really_ wanted to get rid of it.

But that was a last resort.

_Someone is coming,_ Virgil assured himself.

It couldn’t have been that long since he’d forced his dream onto Thomas, but it already felt like an eternity had passed.

_Maybe this calls for a last resort,_ his mind whispered. _What if there is nobody left to come and save you? What if you’re the only one who can do something anymore?_

Virgil tried to force the thought away.

_If you stay here, you’ll either succumb to Depression’s corruption, or you’ll go off the deep end. You can’t hold out like this forever._

Virgil clenched his jaw and willed more ice to fill his head. Someone _was_ coming to save him. Virgil had to believe that. And he had to buy them all the time he could.

_How much more of this can you take?_

There was a smell of blood in the air. Virgil was certain it was his own. Despite the numbness, every so often his body would begin to ache with the cold, and the prickles of ice would reassert themselves, biting into Virgil’s skin, his veins, his brain. It hurt, but he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Even though he could do something about it.

But that was a last resort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which virgil gets stabbed through the eye ;)  
Happy Holidays y'all <3


	11. Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm back. I have no excuse for being gone so long, I literally just forgot about posting, I guess? Anyway here you go, if anybody is still reading this haha.  
Warnings: Blood!!

Roman woke up in a twilit forest. It took him a moment to collect himself, to remember where he was and why he was there. He remembered being rescued by Patton, talking to Thomas, escaping Deceit, and…

Roman’s heart stopped. _Virgil_.

He scrambled to his feet and looked around, and cursed. There was no way of telling where in the Basement he was, the lay of the land changed too frequently. How long had he been out? Roman closed his eyes and searched for the internal clock. It was nearly seven o’clock. He’d been unconscious for more than an hour! Roman cursed again.

He did a quick inventory check. He had no sword, no sash (though that was hardly the priority), and no allies to come to his aid. On the other hand, his time spent unconscious had helped heal the hole in his chest—it was practically closed now. Roman poked at it and winced. It still hurt, but not as bad as before. That was good, because the first-aid supplies he’d conjured up had disappeared, and he wanted to conserve every last bit of energy he could for emergencies.

Emergencies like this, came to mind.

_Think, Roman._ What was something he could conjure that could get him to the Basement living room, quickly, and without running into trouble along the way? Something that covered both distance and height would be ideal.

An animal would be too troublesome to deal with, and too rough of a ride. He needed something more practical than showy. An aircraft? No, that would only make it more difficult to locate his destination. He certainly wasn’t about to give himself wings in this condition. So, then, what? Roman blinked as a thought came to mind. _Am I, or am I not a Disney fan?_ He envisioned what he wanted and willed it to come into being.

A magic carpet solidified on the ground in front of him. After a moment, it twitched, then rose up by itself and began inspecting the environment, not unlike a dog. Roman found it in himself to smile briefly, before he was overcome with a wave of dizziness and his knees buckled beneath him. The carpet caught him before he hit the ground.

“Thank you,” Roman murmured. The carpet didn’t say anything because it couldn’t talk, but Roman liked to imagine its slight movement was in recognition. Roman crawled onto the carpet and collapsed completely. The carpet waited for his instructions.

“Take me to Virgil, please,” Roman breathed.

The carpet rose gently into the air, as if it knew how tender Roman was at the moment, and began to glide.

The cool breeze brushed Roman’s cheeks. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but his thoughts raced regardless. He had a lot to think about.

He hoped Virgil was okay. Despite how they disagreed, Roman was just beginning to like Virgil; it would certainly sting to have a budding companionship stolen away from him due to the circumstances, just like that. Not to mention, Virgil was far too important to be kept from Thomas for too long. Supposedly they had exchanged energies, but Depression was clearly not in place of anxiety any longer. Even with Depression preventing Thomas from going out and doing anything, something bound was bad to happen—and where would that leave them if Thomas’s anxiety was out of the picture when disaster struck?

And Logan and Patton. Roman swallowed down a wave of guilt that threatened to drown him. Patton, who had given himself up in good faith—he believed that Roman could find Virgil before it was too late. And Logan, who used himself as a distraction, and was ultimately defeated. And Roman had done nothing but sit there, and listen to it happen.

_This is all my fault._ If only he hadn’t antagonized Depression. If only he’d been creative enough to find a way to prevent these depressive episodes in the first place. If only he’d been smart and perceptive, like he should be. If only he was as strong as he pretended to be. If only he were adequate, none of this would have happened.

Roman blinked, hard, and wiped away the tear or two that had escaped his notice. He couldn’t afford to think like that right now. The guilt would paralyze him; wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t do him any good, especially when there was still work to be done, and a chance of victory, no matter how small. And there _was_ a small chance of victory. As long as Roman had Virgil, there would always be a chance.

Roman shivered, and hugged his legs a little closer. Was it getting colder? He opened his eyes. All around him was gloomy and grim. Wisps of fog twisted into visibility and disappeared just as quickly, and out of the murk, thin stalagmites and stalactites loomed. A cave?

The carpet slowed.

Roman sat up. “Why are we stopping?” He whispered. This couldn’t be his destination, could it? The carpet nudged him until he dismounted. The floor was not hard stone, as he expected it to be—it was stiff, but gave a little under his weight. Roman touched a hand to the ground. It came away cold, but there was no mistaking it: he was standing on carpet. This was the Basement living room.

_What happened here?_

Roman approached a stalagmite and found that he was able to see through it. It was made entirely of ice. So Patton was right—it had spread from the Imagination.

“Virgil?” Roman called. His voice echoed strangely, loudly. There was no response. Then, after a long, fragile moment of complete silence, Roman thought he heard a whisper. He strained his ears, but the sound was so low he couldn’t make anything out. Was that even really a voice? Maybe it was all in his head. “Virgil, is that you?”

“_Who’s there?_”

Roman’s hands flew to his ringing ears. How could anything be so loud? His heart thundered in his chest.

“Virgil!” He shouted. His heart beat faster, harder; Roman was beginning to feel dizzy. “I’m not here to hurt you! It’s me! It’s Roman! Please stop!”

His heart rate slowed, and Roman sucked a deep breath in, trying to steady himself.

“_Roman?_” Virgil’s voice shook. He wasn’t so loud, now, but he still retained that dark echo. Roman sighed in relief. Virgil was still lucid, if paranoid. _I wasn’t too late._

“Where are you?” Roman looked around, but saw no sign of him. “Come on, we need to get out of here. We’re in deep trouble Upstairs.”

“_I need your help._”

Roman frowned, “Where are you?”

“_Near the couch. Don’t freak out when you see me, okay?_”

“Why would I freak out?” Roman asked, continuing forwards.

_There._ That vaguely rectangular lump had to be the couch. Roman passed it and looked around.

“Virge? Where are you?”

“_Over here._”

Roman turned towards the voice. It took him a moment, but eventually he saw the dark shape at the base of one of the ice-stalagmites. Virgil didn’t look like he was in such bad shape…

Roman’s eyes widened. He stumbled back and gagged, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“_What did I just say?_” Virgil snapped. Roman only half-heard him. He didn’t want to look at that scene a second time. No sir, this was not what he was prepared for. Roman glanced over quickly, then turned away again.

“Sorry,” Roman said weakly. “I just… I-I need a second to…” Roman fought down the rising bile in his throat. He took one deep breath. Two deep breaths. Another, than another. Roman steeled himself for the sight, then turned around once more and approached Virgil.

Virgil was impaled upon the stalagmite, not lying in front of it as Roman had initially thought. Another icicle ran through Virgil’s right eye and pinned his head to the floor. Dark, thick blood leaked from the wounds and pooled in a great puddle on the ground.

“Zeus almighty, Virgil,” Roman choked, “Are you alright?”

Virgil slowly, carefully opened his mouth, and spat,

“_What the hell do you think? Get this icicle out of my skull before I melt it myself. Save me first, ask questions later._”

“Right! Right, sorry.”

Roman cringed harder the closer he approached—the smell of blood only got stronger. And… the details got clearer, too. _Oh dear. Oh my stars. That is horrible. That is the worst thing I’ve ever seen_. Roman was no neophyte when it came to witnessing bodily injury, but he’d hardly seen something so graphic. And he’d never seen anyone he _knew_ in such a state.

Virgil’s annoyed, one-eyed stare didn’t quite match Roman’s unparalleled horror and disgust.

Roman kneeled down and wrapped a hand around the icicle protruding from Virgil’s eye socket, and with the other hand, he held Virgil’s head down. He sucked in a deep breath and held it in, then gave a quick, sharp tug.

The icicle came out easily and slick with blood. Virgil hissed in pain. The newly gaping hole in his face began to leak crimson.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Roman stammered. He cast the cursed icicle aside. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“_Stop whining and get me off this damn skewer, Princey. And grab that icicle you just threw away, we’re gonna need it later._”

“Y-Yes, Virgil.”

Roman grabbed the discarded icicle and tucked in his sword’s empty sheath. He looked at the stalagmite. He had no weapon, so there was really only one thing he could use to break it. He wound back, and hit the stalagmite with his fist. A large chunk of the top chipped away. _This will have to do, for now_. He continued hitting it, and watched the bits break off and scatter. Virgil watched intently.

“Why don’t you use your sword?” Virgil asked after several hits. The difference between his tempest tongue and his regular voice was so jarring that Roman momentarily forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

“Why don’t I what?”

Virgil rolled his eye. “Your sword, genius. Wouldn’t using that make things easier?”

Roman tensed. “Well… Ah, no, actually. This is far more efficient.” A complete and utter lie, but Virgil did not need to hear more bad news right now in his state.

“Wow. You are a _terrible_ liar.”

_Well, it was a valiant effort_, he told himself. Then, _Who am I kidding?—No, it wasn’t._

“You lost it, didn’t you?”

“No!” Roman protested. He’d never do something so thoughtless!

“So, someone took it.”

“No!” Roman said again, less confidently. Virgil gave him a look, which was far more intimidating than it normally was, given his mutilated face.

“Maybe,” Roman admitted. “But didn’t you just tell me to save you first and ask questions later? I can tell you everything that went wrong when we’re on our way out of here.”

Virgil fell silent, and Roman continued chipping away at the ice with his hands. Finally, after several strikes, a sizable chunk broke off from the top and shattered on the ground. Roman kneeled down again and looked at Virgil.

“Ready?” He asked.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Virgil muttered.

Roman wrapped one arm under Virgil’s knees and another behind his waist.

“Three, two, one…” Roman stood, lifting Virgil up and off the base of the stalagmite with disgusting, wet sound. Virgil stifled a shriek, clenching his eyelids shut. Roman felt sick to his stomach.

“Carpet?” Roman called out. To his immense relief, the magic carpet had stuck around, and it came to his voice.

“A magic carpet?” Virgil said weakly. “Impressive.”

“I am quite impressive, aren’t I?” Roman mused, lowering Virgil onto the carpet. Virgil chuckled as Roman climbed on, which then turned into a cough. A light mist of blood sprayed from his lips. Roman’s smile fell. Like Roman, Virgil would eventually heal, but there was no telling just how far away ‘eventually’ was, especially an injury of this severity. Virgil needed lots of rest, and he needed it in a place where the two of them would be safe.

“Where can we go?” Roman asked Virgil quietly.

Virgil sighed. “My room.”

“But Depression—“

“—Not that room,” Virgil muttered. “My old room.”

“…Oh.”

Somehow, Roman had entirely forgotten that Virgil had a room in the Basement. Of course he had a room in the Basement—he used to live in it, after all.

“Well then,” Roman patted the carpet, “Would you kindly take us to Virgil’s old room?” The carpet bucked in response, earning a groan from Virgil, and took off at a glide. Soon enough the doom and gloom of the Basement living room vanished, and they were soaring through open skies again.

“So?” Virgil said grimly. “Fill me in.”

Roman did, beginning with Depression attacking him (how had that only been last night?), and filling in all the details until the moment the present moment.

“So, basically,” Virgil said after Roman finished his story, “Logan and Patton are out of commission, Habit and Deceit are spellbound, and it’s up to you and me to fix everything.”

“Yeah, basically.”

Virgil chewed on this for a moment. “Okay,” He finally said, “I can work with this.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What else are we going to do? Not work with it?”

Roman laid back down. “I guess you’re right.”

“Besides,” Virgil added, “The idea of you pushing Deceit off a cliff his hilarious, and it totally improved my mood.”

Roman laughed suddenly and loudly. Virgil snickered.

Roman looked up at the sky. It was completely black—if he didn’t turn his head, he could imagine his eyes were closed. He could hear Virgil breathing. Ragged, shallow, and unsteady. _How is he so strong?_ Roman thought.

He was suddenly struck with the thought that he didn’t know much about Virgil. They didn’t really spend time with each other except during YouTube videos and mealtimes—come to think of it, almost everything he knew about Virgil’s personality he had learned during Sanders Sides episodes. Even his knowledge of Virgil’s origin was limited. When they were younger, Roman knew there were other Sides that lived in the Basement, but the only one he knew by name was Deceit—and that was only because they occasionally shared dream time. Then, one day, Virgil—or Anxiety, as he was known back then—just kind of… appeared Upstairs. And he’d lived with the Light Sides ever since.

Even though Virgil and Roman had found a way to get along since his debut, Virgil hadn’t really changed all that much in all the time Roman had known him. He was less harsh than he used to be, but he was still negative, still cautious, still as mysterious as he was unpredictable. He was a bit of an enigma, that Virgil.

“Hey, Virgil?” Roman asked.

“Mm?”

“How do you do that?”

Virgil twisted around and looked back at Roman. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Roman pondered, “When Depression got me, it was instant. I shut down, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was completely shaken up when Patton rescued me—I’m still shaken, to be quite honest with you, and he only poked me with a little icicle. But you were… mangled. And yet, you stayed lucid for hours on end with merely your own willpower. You even managed to contact Thomas in that state. And now, here you are, talking and joking with me like it’s no big deal. It’s like you’re walking on broken ankles, but it doesn’t even bother you.”

“My ankles aren’t broken.”

“It’s an analogy, Darth Virgil.”

Virgil smiled a little.

“Well, I guess it’s because I’m Anxiety. My entire purpose is to regulate how Thomas acts, keeping him safe, keeping him in check. Every little detail gets to me. How loudly he’s breathing, whatever he’s staring at when he spaces out, how heavy his footsteps are, his resting face, his poise and form, his schedule, his future, his past. It’s all so uncertain.

“You can never say for sure when something will be important, or when nobody will notice. You can’t know how passersby see you, or what the people around you already think; you don’t know every inner working of the people around you. I have to stay vigilant and tread cautiously, because no matter what, we’ll never have any _real_ grasp of what we’re getting into, even if it’s just a seemingly simple conversation. Anything can go wrong. Everything might go wrong. And what will happen if it does go wrong—what will we do then?”

Virgil sighed. “I guess it’s just that when something more important arises, it overrides all the technicalities and minor details. If you were in the middle of fighting a dragon-witch, you don't have be worried about the stupid expressions you might make, or how straight your back was, you know? The big threats make it easy to ignore the little threats. I think, in the long run, for me it’s easier to do the harder things. Harder things like this, I mean.”

“But,” Virgil conceded, “I also think it’s easier for me to deal with this kind of thing because I have more experience with it. Not to mention—I’m one of the few that can co-exist with Depression. It’s probably just naturally easier for me to resist him.”

Roman nodded, satisfied. “I suppose you have a point.”

“Also,” Virgil said suddenly, “Did you say Depression ‘poked you with a little icicle’? Are you really trying to play the validation game with me over who got stabbed worse? Seriously?”

“Shut up!” Roman’s face flushed, “I was only trying to make a point! Besides,” He continued under his breath, “You totally did get stabbed worse than me.”

“Oh my _God_, Princey,” Virgil’s eye-roll was palpable, “It’s a _stab wound_. I think the takeaway here is that we both got speared, and we both think it sucks.”

There was another long period of silence, but it was more comfortable this time. Roman peeked off the edge of the carpet and admired the landscape below. It really was amazing—just as strange and as beautiful as it was fabled to be. There were cityscapes halfway-morphed with mountain ranges, deserts with blooming neon trees, tundras and towns and centaurs and cyborgs—and was that a centaur-cyborg he saw just now?

Virgil didn’t seem interested. Roman almost got upset (he was _missing_ the _experience!_), then he remembered again: Virgil already knew this place, better than Roman, better than most.

Roman looked down again. He didn’t visit the Basement too often. Maybe he should. _It might be nice to go exploring when this is all over_, he thought.

“…Hey, Roman?” Virgil said quietly.

“Yeah?”

Virgil looked away, “Thanks for coming,” He mumbled into his hoodie.

Roman looked at him curiously.

“For a long time, I thought nobody was coming,” He said softly. “I was really scared I was going to have to escape by myself. I-If you hadn’t shown up when you did…” He trailed off. Shook his head. Then said, “Anyway, I know you still don’t like me very much. So thanks for coming, despite that.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose,” Roman frowned. “But, Virgil, I’d like you to know that I don’t _dislike_ you.”

“You’re afraid of me, though,” Virgil interrupted. “And that’s fine. I mean, that’s my job.”

“No, it’s not that either.” Roman thought for a moment, “Well, maybe that’s partly true. But what I meant to say is that I don’t dislike you, Virgil, I just don’t know you very well. You’re quite the mystery. But,” Roman paused, and tried to think of the best way to phrase his next line. “I think I’d like to get to know you a little better—if you’re okay with that, I mean.”

“How do you mean?” Virgil looked at him.

“Well,” Roman fidgeted, “Would-you-like-to-try-being-friends?” He blurted. “I-If that’s alright with you, I mean.” He twiddled his thumbs and hoped for an answer.

“Friends, huh?” Virgil said after a long moment. “I guess having a friend wouldn’t be so bad.”

Relief swept through Roman like a riptide.

“But, uh…” Virgil added, “If we’re going to make this a thing, then, you know,” He took a deep breath. “Try not to let me scare you off too much, okay?”

Roman waved a dismissive hand. “You could never scare me off!”

Virgil chuckled. “Right, right, you’re far too courageous for that.”

“Wonderful, then!” Roman declared. He sat up and grasped Virgil’s hand in his own, giving it a shake. “It’s good to make your acquaintance, friend.”

Virgil shook back hesitantly. “Likewise, friend.”

Roman felt a warm feeling blooming in his chest. _This is a good thing_, it told him.


	12. Friendship Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all had a good MLK day!

The magic carpet was beginning its decent. Virgil peeked over the side. The ever-changing landscape had disappeared, and they slipped into a churning gray fog.

When they finally touched down, the fog had eased into a light mist. The ground was mostly damp dirt, speckled with pebbles. Mossy tree stumps, clovers, and mushrooms sprouted up from the ground. What Virgil had really missed were the flowers. Tiny flowers of every color bloomed all around. As Roman and Virgil watched, several sprouted, then withered, disintegrated into dust, and grew anew. They reminded Virgil of phoenixes.

The air smelled of petrichor—that is to say, a rainy day. Virgil had been stretched thin these last few hours, but it was undeniable that returning here filled him with a certain sense of peace.

Roman looked around, fascinated. He’d had probably never really been anywhere but the Imagination, so this whole experience was likely entirely new to him. Seeing him in awe was kind of adorable.

_A friend…_

Virgil shook off the sentiment. It was sweet, but they really had more important matters to tend to than the state of their free-trial friendship at the moment.

“So, this is your old room?” Roman nudged a rock with his shoe. “Gotta say, it looks a little more… outdoorsy than I expected.”

Virgil rolled his remaining eye. “It’s not like carpets can open doors, dumbass. This is more like a yard, or a porch.”

“Your porch is infested with un-killable flowers.”

“I think they’re pretty,” He murmured. He crouched down to look at them, and Roman followed suit. “You know,” he said, “I haven’t been back here since I moved in with the Light Sides. I guess I’d kinda forgotten about them. They used to make me feel better when I was really down. Now that I’m finally seeing them again, I guess they still do.”

Virgil tried to stand up, but his torso twisted and cracked, and he cried out. Roman grabbed him before he could fall. After he helped Virgil to his feet, Virgil shooed him off. He could stand on his own, no matter how much blood he’d lost, no matter how much his legs were trembling. He just had to take it one step at a time.

One step. Then another, then another. Soon enough, Virgil was limping along at a slow and steady pace, with Roman following uncertainly behind.

_Stupid. Why did I open up to him? He didn’t want my life story, he just wanted a simple answer._

Virgil would love to blame Deceit or Depression’s influence for that little voice, but unfortunately, he knew it was his own. Just another thing he had in common with the villains.

A sigh of exasperation caught his attention. Virgil twisted around to see what was happening, and cringed at the series of shooting pains the motion produced. Roman was sitting on the ground, looking dejected and holding two complete handfuls of dust. Virgil had to bite back a smile.

“Were you trying to pick me a flower?”

“Yeah!” Roman pouted. “You just said they make you feel better, and I thought that maybe if I got you some—“

“—You were trying to make me feel better?”

Roman’s face went beet red.

“Well, yeah,” He mumbled.

Virgil’s smile grew even wider. He hadn’t been expecting to enjoy himself half as much as he already had today. He gestured to Roman,

“Bring them here.”

Roman tromped the distance and presented his gift. Virgil stifled a laugh.

“You’re laughing at me!” Roman moaned in despair.

“I totally am. Hey, look, magic trick time. Drop all your dust on the ground.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Princey.”

Roman huffed, but opened his hands. The dust fell to the ground with a _whap!_ Roman gave Virgil a dry look. In response, Virgil pointed back to the ground,

“Look.”

The dust was no longer dust. In it’s place, a dozen tiny stems were sprouting from the soil. Before their eyes, the flowers grew taller and bloomed like colorful explosions, then wilted, crumbled, and died, before the whole process started all over again.

“How come the flowers can only grow in the dirt?” Roman complained.

“Do you know how plants work?”

Roman crossed his arms and pouted like a child, and Virgil laughed out loud.

“Hey, do you want to see another magic trick?”  
“No.”

“Too bad.” Virgil carefully bent over and snatched a fistful of stems from the dirt. Sure enough, they died in his hand. But as Roman and Virgil watched, the dust compacted into seeds. The seeds grew roots and shot out stems, and in no time at all, Virgil was holding a whole bouquet in his hand. This time, they didn’t even begin to wilt. They stayed in bloom, radiant as ever, clutched safely in Virgil’s fist.

“Hey, no fair!” Roman cried. Virgil erupted into laughter, completely ignoring the pain in his chest. He hadn’t laughed this much in awhile. Maybe Roman was onto something with this whole ‘friendship’ thing—he should hang around him more often.

“Everything here was created by me,” Virgil explained inbetween giggles. “It all functions through anxious energy. Ta-da! Magic!”

Roman still looked miffed, but he also looked a little like he was trying not to smile.

“Do you feel better?” He asked.

Virgil looked away, but smiled a little. “I do. Thank you.”

“What are friends for?”

The door wasn’t far ahead—even with Virgil moving at the snail’s pace that he was, they made progress quickly. In fact, Virgil could already glimpse the door in the distance through the mist, which meant that very soon, Roman was going to start feeling very uneasy.

“Are you sure about this?” Roman asked, twisting his coat.

_Bingo_.

“I’m sure, Roman.”

“I-I mean, you were already in pretty bad shape when I found you, so are you sure this place will be, you know… good for you?”

Virgil rubbed his temples and looked back at Roman. A thin streak of eyeshadow underlined his eyes. It seemed Roman was too susceptible to emotional damage to be helpful at the moment. Unfortunately, that meant that if Virgil wanted to get anything done without the Little Prince on his back about it, he was going to have to be mean.

“Your argument is great,” Virgil said, “Except for the fact that it sucks, and you don’t know what you’re talking about. How about you trust my judgement, for once. Or do you have any better ideas?”

Roman stepped back, affronted. Virgil moved to keep walking, but hesitated.

“You should go wait by the carpet. I won’t be long.”

“What? Why!”

“Because you’re already getting hysterical. Look,” Virgil put a hand on Roman’s shoulder, “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. You faced a lot of hardships to help me, even though you just escaped from Depression yourself.”

“I _did_,” Roman mused. He shook his head, “But that’s not the point! Didn’t I just extend my hand to you in friendship? What kind of friend would I be if I weren’t here for you in your time of need?”

“Roman, the most helpful thing you can do for me right now is to stay out of the way. My room down here is much more potent than my room Upstairs—it’s affecting you right now, and you’re not even inside it. The last thing we need right now is an anxiety-corrupted Prince running amok.”

“Then what do I do?” Roman’s eyes were pleading. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing again.”

Virgil sighed. “Look, Roman, there’s not much you _can_ do. But if you really want to keep an eye on things, then grab onto a flower or two when you get back to the carpet.”

Roman blinked. “What?”

Virgil sighed again. He had the feeling he’d be doing that a lot with Roman. “I’d explain it for you, but you shouldn’t stick around much longer, and it’s getting harder for me to stand up on my own. Scram.”

Roman didn’t move for a moment, then started walking away, then hesitated again.

“_Go_,” Virgil snapped, harsher than he’d intended to. But it did the trick, Roman all but turned tail and ran.

_Alone again._ Virgil stared down his door. Despite the fact that Roman had been talking out of his ass when he was high on fear, he was right about one thing: this place wouldn’t be good for Virgil.

His Basement room wasn’t necessarily bad. Would it heal him? Certainly. Would it energize him? Unfortunately, yes. And, given the circumstances, Virgil wasn’t the most stable Side in the headspace at the moment—quite the opposite, in fact. Virgil didn’t need to be energized when he was like this—he needed to heal, and then get out, ASAP, before he went haywire.

And if something did go wrong… well, that’s why Roman was there.

Before Virgil could overthink it, he opened the door and slipped into the warm, familiar darkness.

* * *

When Roman finally made it back to the carpet—a trip that felt somehow longer without Virgil by his side—he flopped back onto the grass and sighed. _Virgil seemed angry with me_, Roman thought. Had he done something wrong? He’d said that Roman was getting hysterical, but Roman hadn’t felt hysterical—he’d just felt very sure that he was _right_.

Which, come to think of it, was how he’d felt inside Virgil’s other room, Upstairs. Roman wiped a finger under his eyes, and it came back stained dark with eyeshadow. He sighed, and considered starting a tally of how many times Virgil was right, versus how many times Roman made a fool of himself in front of him.

_That’s a point for Virgil_.

Speaking of Virgil, hadn’t he said something about the flowers? Yes, _Grab onto a flower or two when you get back to the carpet_. Roman rolled over to look at the flowers in question. What did Virgil mean by that? He’d already tried picking the flowers, and they hadn’t done anything but wither. Unless he meant…

Roman mentally face-palmed at himself. ‘Grab’ meant more than just ‘take’, it meant mean ‘hold,’ too.

Roman reached out and gently wrapped his hand around a flower stem. Nothing happened. Roman buried his face in the crook of his elbow. _Maybe he was playing me for a fool, just to get me out of the way._

_I wouldn’t put it past me,_ another voice cut through the silence of his mind, _But honestly, you think I’d pull tricks at a time like this? Use your head, please, Romano._

Roman nearly jumped a mile high and accidentally pulled the flower out of the ground, and it crumbled to dust in his hands. He scrambled to touch another flower.

“…_Virgil?_” Roman felt like a fool saying that to his own brain, but…

“_Did you just rip the flower out?_”

Roman flinched again, but a little less. That voice was definitely Virgil’s. And it was inside his head.

“_Maybe,_” he admitted. His ears were ringing, somehow. “_This is kind of unsettling. How are you doing this?_”

“_The flowers are directly tied to my ‘life force’, if you will. I guess it's because I made them. Anyway, if you hold onto one, you’re able to communicate with me directly._”

“_I guess that makes sense…?_” It did not make sense. “_How did you even discover this?_”

“_What, you don’t know anything about your own room that I don’t know?_”

Roman mulled this over—he had a point.

“_Anyway,_” Virgil continued, “_I’m sorry to do this to you. I know you said you wanted to look out for me, but I think dark thoughts sometimes—especially in my old room. If it ever gets to be too much, I won’t hold it against you if you drop the connection. It’s not something you need to hear._”

“_Hah—as if! When I offered you my friendship, I made a commitment to be here for you, and I’m not about to ignore that in such a hurry._”

Roman felt Virgil’s eye roll, rather than saw it.

“_You’re so noble—it’s actually kind of sickening._”

“_I’ll take that as a compliment._”

There was a moment of comfortable nothingness; a full silence, save for Roman’s own breathing and the tender sigh of the zephyr. He could fall asleep like this—not a grasping, possessive exhaustion like Depression’s sleep, but something calm, something quiet, something dreamless.

“_No drifting off, unfortunately,_” Virgil’s voice disrupted the drowsiness in Roman’s mind. He blinked his eyes open. He hadn’t even realized they’d closed. He yawned.

“_Any particular reason?”_ Roman inquired.

“_You have something I’ll need soon._” Before Roman could even ask the question, Virgil answered it with an image that flashed through his mind, a lingering cold on the tips of his fingers. Roman’s free hand went to his sheath, which held not a sword, but an icicle.

“_You’ll have to give it to me,_” Virgil said._ “If I try to take it when I’m wired, you’re liable to get hurt._”

“_Do you really think you’ll need it?_”

“_I know I will._”

“_…Oh._”

There was a pause, then Virgil chuckled darkly. “_You cut it pretty close, you know that? If you’d shown up a minute later, it might’ve been too late. Who knows what would have happened then?_”

Roman shivered.

“_Just kidding,_” Virgil dismissed, “_You were there last time, weren’t you? You already know what would have happened._”

_Last time… _Suddenly and unbidden, flashes of memory appeared and vanished, as fleeting as lightning—ice sculptures that weren’t sculptures at all, air so cold that Roman was choking on it, glazed over eyes and feeling nothing, feeling that he could crumble, and everything would crumble with him.

“_Then again, I suppose you didn’t see much of me last time, did you?_” Virgil mused. Roman blinked, and remembered where he was.

“_No,_” Roman admitted, “_But I saw more of you than anybody else did_.”

“_That’s true. It explains why you disliked me more than anybody else did_.”

Roman stayed quiet. He couldn’t deny it, so he wouldn’t even try.

“_It’s okay,_” Virgil said, sensing Roman’s discomfort. “_You were just scared. Everybody was—even me. Especially me._”

“_You?_”

“_The Incident wasn’t my first episode, but it was the first time I understood I could use it against someone. Realizing you need to be afraid of yourself is a supremely unpleasant surprise._”

A question lingered in Roman’s mind. It hung on the edge of conscious thought, insensitive, unnecessary, forbidden.

“_What is it?_” Virgil’s voice prodded at Roman’s curiosity.

Roman bit his lip. “_I just had a question, but it’s really nothing. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable._”

“_Roman, I’m always uncomfortable. If I don’t want to answer it, I won’t. Shoot._”

“_What does it feel like?_”

Virgil paused. “_What does it feel like… when I have an episode?_”

“_Yeah._”

Virgil didn’t respond. Roman felt his cheeks flush in shame—it was a question he shouldn’t have asked. Was he already ruining this—their newborn friendship?

“_It feels… sickly._” Virgil’s voice was quiet, but when he said it, it was all Roman could hear. “_It’s the feeling of being on a rollercoaster—both terrifying and exhilarating. But at the same time, it’s like poison._”

“_I’m not sure I understand._”

“_I guess what I mean is that it’s like an addiction. It’s a bad, disgusting feeling, but it feels good enough that you crave it anyway._”

Somewhere along the line, a pit had opened up in Roman’s stomach. His head drooped in solemnity.

“_I’m sorry,_” Virgil said. “_That was too much, wasn’t it?_”

“_No,_” Roman thought honestly, “_I just think I get it now, is all._” He knew that feeling all too well—he’d been addicted to his fair share of delusions, and he had a gut feeling that what Virgil was talking about felt something similar. That consuming, obsessive abyss.

“_I’m sorry,_” Virgil murmured again. “_Let’s get out of here._”

The swirling feelings of guilt and uneasiness Roman had been harboring disappeared in an instant when Virgil dropped the connection. Had those emotions really been Virgil’s all along, or had he just been amplifying Roman’s own state of mind?

Virgil emerged from the fog a minute later. His head was down and he looked tense, but he was walking fine. His face was covered in coagulating blood, as was his chest and his tattered clothes, but there were no other signs he’d been injured at all—just smooth, pale skin.

“Amazing,” Roman said, out loud this time. “How do you heal so quickly?”

Virgil _hmph_’d. “Anxious energy. Weren’t you listening?” His voice was unexpectedly low and raw, compared to how steady he sounded in Roman’s mind. “Give me the icicle.”

Roman pulled the icicle out of its sheath. Somehow, it hadn’t melted at all—though he supposed when it came to Depression, it wasn’t that unreasonable. He moved to hand it off to Virgil… who backed away, gathering his hoodie around himself.

“Don’t touch me. Just put it on the ground,” He muttered.

Roman hesitantly set the icicle on the ground, then took a step away. Virgil snatched it up, using the sleeves of his hoodie as makeshift gloves. He looked around, eventually setting his sights on a tree stump with a comparably level surface.

“Do you really have to do this?” Roman asked, feeling queasy. “I mean, we came here to heal you, didn’t we? You’re healed now, so is this really… necessary…?” He trailed off, and Virgil finally looked him in the eyes. They were distanced from each other, but Roman could see well enough—Virgil’s irises were no longer brown, but were instead a pale purple. Roman didn’t know much about Virgil’s inner workings, that much was true, but he knew this wasn’t something he was qualified to trifle with. So he shut his mouth and looked away.

A dull thud, a hiss, a sigh. Roman heard all of these things, but didn’t dare turn around until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Virgil looked tired, but less tense. His eyes were back to normal, which Roman felt eternally grateful for. Virgil offered Roman a small smile, and Roman found it within himself to return it. He tried his best to ignore Virgil’s other hand, which hung, bloodied, at his side, with an icicle that was thinner than it used to be sticking through it.

Roman helped Virgil back onto the magic carpet, then climbed on himself.

“Where to now?” Roman asked.

“We need to save Patton,” Virgil answered immediately. It must have been on his mind.

“Out of curiosity, why Patton?”

“He tries hard not to be negative, but negative is all he can be feeling right now. He’s the most susceptible to emotional damage—and he’s also the Side with the most sway over Thomas. Therefore, he takes top priority.”

“How are we going to…” Roman trailed off. His chest filled with a warm feeling, his fingertips buzzed. He knew this feeling—he knew this feeling. Why was he feeling it now?

“What’s wrong?” Virgil asked sharply.

Roman took a moment to collect his bearings and process what was happening, to make sure what he was feeling was real.

“Change of plans.” He leaned down towards the carpet, “Take us to the Imagination.” He looked at Virgil. “Someone is trying to make Thomas a dream!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark Sides next chapter >:3


	13. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS!! Theere is blood mentions in this chapter, and there are also SPIDER mentions. Stay safe y'all!! Enjoy >:)

Depression felt as though he were being consumed by annoyance. Only annoyance—he couldn’t feel anything stronger than that. He sunk into the couch, his mind sticking to all of the inconveniences he’d had to weather.

He could feel Habit’s eyes on him.

“What the hell do you want?” He snapped.

“Sheesh. No need to get snappy,” Habit sneered. Ever since Depression had corrupted him, he’d been picking up bad habits at an exponential rate. Mouthing off was one of them. “I wasn’t even doing anything.”

“Then stop staring.”

“I’m _not_ staring,” Habit argued.

“Lying is _my_ job,” Deceit said, materializing with a whirl of his cape. He looked like a disaster, but it didn’t show in his voice. “Have you made any progress with Logan?”

Habit sighed, “I don’t know. He clearly doesn’t have the will to fight back anymore, but I don’t think he has the will for anything else, either. He’s too important to dispose of, but I don’t think he’s going to be much help to us.”

“So you’ve been useless, then,” Deceit said snidely.

Habit bristled. “How’d it go with Princey?” He shot back.

“Yes,” Depression interjected, “How _did_ it go with Creativity?”

Deceit was quiet for a long moment before answering, which Depression knew meant he was coming up with a way to sugarcoat the truth. _So he was a failure_.

“Well…” Deceit wandered in front of the coffee table, picking up a little decorative bowl and toying with it. Blood glistened hypnotically from the crystalline ice in his forearm. Deceit unconsciously rubbed the edge of the wound with one gloved hand. “Overall,” He started slowly, “I succeeded in incapacitating Roman.”

“Oh, did you now?” Habit rolled his eyes. “Lying is a bad habit, you know.”

“Hypocrisy is a bad habit,” Deceit snapped back. Habit shut his mouth.

“As I was saying.” Deceit put down the bowl and smoothed out his cape, “I found him at the Basement door.”

“Good detective work—finding him at the one place he would go,” Depression muttered. Habit giggled.

“_Anyway,_” Deceit pressed, annoyance creeping into his voice, “He tried to run. He made it through the divide, but I broke his staircase. He is injured and low on energy—wherever he is, he will likely be unconscious for awhile.”

“He’s also unarmed,” Habit added, producing Roman’s sword from thin air.

“Exactly,” Deceit nodded. “I don’t think he’ll be much of a threat.”

“Unarmed,” Depression began slowly, “Injured, low on energy, and on the run. Roman was already all of these things by the time you encountered him. And yet, somehow, he managed to evade you efficiently enough to make it into the Basement anyway. So remind me again, Deceit: How is he not a threat? And how was this report supposed to make you appear competent?”

Deceit paled. “W-Well,” He stumbled over his usually-smooth words, “I-I can go look for him. I’ll find him for you. I’ll go right now.” He barely took one shaky step forwards before Depression twitched his fingers. Deceit’s foot froze to the floor.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Depression sighed, “I don’t really care about the extent of your ineptitude concerning Roman. What I _am_ interested in is Thomas. He’s meandering right now, but once I put him to sleep, I think it’s about time we introduce ourselves.”

Deceit and Habit exchanged glances.

“I spent a lot of time hiding you away from him.” Deceit fidgeted, “Do we really want to throw all that caution away?”

“I have to agree with Prince Zuko of the Liar Nation, here.” Habit jerked a thumb towards Deceit, who looked torn between being annoyed at the nickname, and grateful for the backup. “Guiding Thomas from the shadows is the way we’ve always done things, and this isn’t something we can recover from if we decide we regret it.”

Depression wasn’t very swayed by the opposition. If they still didn’t want to comply by the time he made his point, he could always just make them.

With another flick of his fingers, Deceit unstuck from the ground. Depression stood and stretched, and his joints cracked in unison. Deceit flinched.

“Just because it’s the way you’ve always done things, doesn’t mean it’s a good way to do things,” Depression finally said. “While I tend to favor stagnation over variation, this case is an exception. Doesn’t Thomas deserve a little variety in the Sides he knows? Aren’t you tired of sitting in the backseat—don’t you want your turn? Don’t you want to be seen?”

“Maybe,” Habit admitted quietly.

“No,” Deceit lied.

Depression smiled. “Then it’s unanimous. Be prepared to introduce yourselves.”

“Thomas already knows me,” Deceit mumbled.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten caught.” Habit rolled his eyes, “Take a page out of Virgil’s book every once in awhile and learn to be cautious.”

Depression’s eyes narrowed. “Speaking of Virgil,” he said. The other two stood at abrupt attention. “Let’s break the news to Thomas gently. Anything too sudden, and Virgil might be able to feel it. And we don’t want that, do we?”

They shook their heads stiffly. Depression smiled.

“Good. Be ready.”

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and they sunk out. Habit and Deceit did a good enough job of hiding it, but Depression could feel their hesitation and their unease. He felt their resentment, their fear, their aimlessness; he relished in it. It was his. They were _his_. Like phantom limbs, he felt their movements, he knew their thoughts.

In the end, it didn’t really matter what they thought, felt, or wanted. They would obey him. They didn’t have a choice.

* * *

“Thomas.”

Thomas didn’t have to turn around to know who that voice belonged to. It had been five hours since his nightmare. Five hours since Roman told him to distract Virgil. Five hours since he’d felt much of anything. It was a strange feeling—feeling nothing. So strange he couldn’t feel how strange it was, because it was so strangely strong, this nothing he was feeling. But in the last five hours, he hadn’t been able to focus on how he was feeling, because Virgil was with him nearly constantly.

He didn’t say much. Mostly he stared, like he wanted something, or like he was waiting to be wanted. Other times, like this, he spoke. And it was always the same question.

“Are you ready to go to bed?” Virgil said, and his voice was molasses, dark and sweet. Every speaking visit, he asked if Thomas was ready to go to bed. And every visit, Thomas felt his eyelids grow a little heavier. It had been five hours since his nap. Five hours since five o’clock.

“It’s ten o’clock,” Virgil hummed, as if he read Thomas’s mind. Maybe he had. “That’s a good time to go to bed, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Thomas murmured. His mind felt fuzzy; his brain buzzed, but no thoughts came out. Only static, like a television that only played dead channels. Just meaningless noise. Just noise. Just noise…

“Thomas,” Virgil said again. Thomas looked up blearily.

“What?”

“Go to bed. You need a good night’s rest.”

“…Okay. Okay.”

With much more effort than was probably necessary, Thomas forced himself to his feet. Every ounce of his willpower, ever fiber of concentration he had, he spent it making sure he walked all the way to his room, dressed himself in pajamas, brushed his teeth, turned out the lights. Had these simple tasks always been so demanding? And all the while, Virgil trailed behind him, ever-present and shadow-like.

Thomas crawled into bed, paying little mind to Virgil’s silhouette at the window.

“_Sweet dreams, Thomas_,” Virgil crooned. Was Thomas imagining the smile in his voice? He had no time to consider it; the moment his head hit the pillow, he passed out.

* * *

_Thomas was having the strangest dream. He was sitting in an empty bathtub, alone in the middle of a clearing in a field. For some reason, he knew he wasn’t supposed to leave the tub. He was waiting for somebody._

_ Patton was sitting on the ground next to him._

_ “What happened to your arm?” Thomas frowned._

_ Patton smiled at him. “Nothing, kiddo. Just wait.”_

_ Thomas eyed the rod of ice embedded in Patton’s forearm. It didn’t seem like he was in pain… It couldn’t be that bad. He looked over the rippling golden waves of tall grass, then up at the sky. It was completely black. Thomas wondered how it looked like it was daytime._

_ In the distance, someone shouted something. Thomas and Patton both turned their heads towards the sound._

_ The shout came again, closer. “Thomas!” it said._

_ “I’m here!” Thomas shouted. Patton’s hand slapped down over his mouth. Thomas’s eyes widened._

_ “They should already know where you are,” Patton said under his breath. “Something’s not right.”_

_ Thomas saw movement through his peripheral vision, and turned his head to see two zombies stumble out of the grass on the left side of the clearing. Wait, no, not zombies—was that Virgil and Roman?_

_ “Thomas!” Roman shouted, grinning._

_ They looked terrible—Roman was covered in dirt and muck, and his sash was nowhere to be seen. Virgil was positively caked in crusted layers of… was that blood? Thomas shivered. He was wearing his old black outfit, it now displayed a large tear right through the stomach. Virgil, like Patton, sported an icicle, it ran through his hand._

_ Patton blanched. “Oh, no.”_

_ Virgil and Roman turned to Patton simultaneously. Virgil’s lip curled. Before he could say anything, two more figures materialized on the right side of the clearing. Thomas turned his head and saw… Virgil and Roman, again. He looked to the left, then back to the right. This new Virgil and Roman were much less… unkempt then their doubles on the left. They looked clean. Not-so-scary. Normal, except for the icicle poking out the sides of new-Roman’s head. What was with all the ice?_

_ Everything stood still for a moment, until the two Virgils looked over Thomas and met each other’s eyes._

_ “You’ve _got _to be kidding me,” They said in unison._

_ The Virgil on Thomas’s right pointed a finger to the copies on the left,_

_ “Get them,” he spat._

_ Patton and Roman took off without hesitation. The other Roman and Virgil looked at each other, then split and ran in different directions, and the un-bloodied Virgil stalked towards Thomas._

_ “We need to wake him up!” Messy-Roman shouted. “Virgil, nightmare!”_

_ The Virgil who was being pursued by Clean-Roman stopped running and closed his eyes. Just before Roman could grab him, he said,_

_ “Spiders.”_

_ The whole field went dark. A horrible clicking noise sounded from the shadows, and Thomas knew exactly what it belonged to. The noise was all around him. Then rustling, the sound of movement in the grass._

_ Spiders._

_ Thomas whimpered._

_ “Deceit!” A furious voice howled on the right._

_ “Got it!”_

_ The field lit up with an orange, flickering light, but Thomas couldn’t see where it was coming from. What he could see, however, were the glittering, beady eyes just beyond its reach; hiding in the shadows, hissing and clicking their horrible mandibles, waiting for their moment to strike. Something in his stomach writhed and twisted; the fear was so intense he felt he was being pulled from his body._

_ Then, a bracing hand touched Thomas’s shoulder, and the raging terror inside of him suddenly muted. He fell back into himself, breathing heavily. The hand belonged to the cool, collected Virgil, who stood above him now._

_ “Stop!” The other Virgil shouted. The duplicate Roman swung his sword—it sunk into Virgil’s shoulder and he collapsed with a scream. The spiders vanished._

_ “Virgil!” The other Roman cried out. He dodged Patton’s swing and began running towards Virgil. Patton paused, looked between the two groups, then suddenly appeared at Thomas’s side._

_ “Thomas, can I tell you a secret?” The Virgil at his side knelt down and gazed into his eyes. “This isn’t real. None of it.”_

_ “Don’t listen to him, Thomas!” The other Virgil shrieked._

_ “You know why?” Virgil ignored him. “Because it’s all just a dream.”_

_ The field disappeared. The sky disappeared. The fire and the chaos and the violence disappeared. It all slipped away into nothing, so quickly that Thomas could hardly remember it. Then he disappeared, too._

* * *

…And reappeared on the couch in his living room. Thomas scrambled to his feet, startling Virgil and Patton, who were on the couch with him.

“What happened? Where am I?” He demanded. His eyes flew to every corner of the room, searching, though for what, he didn’t know. Something felt different. Something felt off.

“Calm down, Thomas!” Virgil put his hands up, “You’re okay. It’s okay, it’s fine now.”

Thomas blinked, took a deep breath, and sighed. He got his thoughts in order. Then,

“What happened?” He asked again. “There was a field, a-and something about spiders?” He forced his shoulders to relax, his racing thoughts to slow. “I don’t remember much,” He said, truthfully. “But you were there. And I think it was a nightmare.”

He paused. Then looked around the room again. At first, he’d thought he was in his living room. At a glance, he supposed he was. But it wasn’t his living room as he knew it. The face of the clock was blurred to the point that it was unreadable. Several objects that Thomas didn’t own were strewn around the room—Rubik’s cubes, assorted plates of abandoned cookie crumbs, stuffed animals; Thomas spotted at least five pairs of earbuds sticking out of random nooks and crannies. This wasn’t _his_ living room, not the way he’d left it, anyway.

“Am I still dreaming?” Thomas asked.

“Lucid dreaming,” Patton corrected, “But yeah, kiddo! Welcome to the Upstairs living room!”

“It’s weird to see him here,” Virgil mused.

“Totally,” Patton agreed.

“Wait, what?” Thomas’s brain couldn’t cram this much jargon at once. “You guys aren’t making sense. Lucid dreaming? The Upstairs living room?”

“Basically what happened, kiddo, is that we wanted you here, but your pesky physical presence was giving us problems,” Patton supplied.

“That didn’t clear things up at all, but thanks for trying, Pat.”

“What Patton means is,” Virgil rolled his eyes, “We Sides measure your mind in two parts: the conscious mind—that’s Upstairs; and the subconscious—or, the Basement. Upstairs is where we are now, and it looks and acts a lot like reality. The Basement is a little more complicated. You, Thomas, can’t visit either of these places when you’re awake, because unlike us, you have a physical body that gets in the way. However, when you’re asleep, you have the ability to appear in the Basement to participate in dreams.

“We wanted you Upstairs, but in order to bring you here, you had to be asleep. You were in the Basement just now, because you were dreaming. But since I told you you were dreaming, it brought us Upstairs—because in a way you’re conscious, but you’re not awake. Right now, we’re in the Upstairs living room: where we Sides can interact when we’re not outside with you, or in our rooms.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, because that’s all he could think. “How do I know you guys are real? How do I know you’re not just replicates my mind created?”

Virgil looked at Patton, and Patton shrugged.

“You don’t, but we could always just remind you when you’re awake.”

“Fair enough.” Then—how had he forgotten?, “I can hardly remember it, but why was I having a nightmare in the first place?”

Virgil and Patton looked at each other again.

“My fault,” Virgil said after a moment. “I apologize for that. It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t mean it.” Thomas looked around, getting a feel for what was missing and what was new. “Hey, where are Roman and Logan? I thought I remembered seeing Roman in that nightmare.”

“Logan is resting,” Patton quickly answered. “He’s been working too hard for his own good, that poor thing. But we can manage without him for a little while.”

“And Roman?”

Virgil and Patton exchanged glances once more. Why did they keep doing that?

“Roman is still downstairs,” Virgil finally said. “But don’t worry about him right now.”

“But what about—“

“—Okay,” Virgil interrupted, “That’s enough questions for now.”

“Hey!” Thomas frowned.

“Shut him up,” Virgil said dismissively.

Patton waved one hand, and Thomas’s own hand slapped over his mouth. _What? How did he—? And why?_

Virgil noticed Thomas’s expression.

“He can do that because you’re within the realm of control now, isn’t that obvious? And if you’re wondering why he did it, it’s because I told him to.”

But the only one who could control speech was Deceit. _No…_ Were Virgil and Deceit working together? Of course not, that would never happen. Would it?

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Deceit, still disguised as Patton, asked Virgil.

“We lost all traces of subtlety the moment Virgil and Roman crashed the party,” Virgil snapped. “If they already know what we’re doing, there’s no point in hiding it. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Right.”

With a snap of Deceit’s fingers, Thomas’s hand released and he appeared back on the couch. Virgil dug his fingers into Thomas’s shoulders in the style of a very aggressive massage, and suddenly, Thomas’s mind went fuzzy. What had he been upset about, again?

“Just relax,” Deceit said. The Patton disguise fell away, revealing the scales underneath. He smiled, but to Thomas he seemed… less conniving than usual. More muted.

Virgil took a deep breath, and let it out in one big sigh. The sigh seemed to sweep through every corner of the room, dimming the lights, making the atmosphere more sluggish. His purple jacket dissolved away, his eyeshadow disappeared. He was wearing a baggy, plain white t-shirt. His face was gaunt.

“Thomas, I’ve been lying to you,” The Side said plainly.

“You’re not Virgil,” Thomas accused without conviction.

“You’re right,” The Side shrugged. “But I’m still a part of you. My name is Depression.”

“Depression,” Thomas murmured.

“We’re very sorry our other friend can’t introduce himself right now,” Deceit added. “His name is Habit.”

“Habit?”

“Yes, Habit.” Deceit repeated condescendingly. “He probably knows you better than anyone. He embodies all your tendencies, routines—daily rituals, if you will. Not to mention trivial habits, like saying ‘you too’ after a well-wish, or reflexively checking your shoes are tied before any kind of performance. He might know you better than you know yourself.”

“Dark Sides,” Thomas mumbled.

Depression rolled his eyes. “Yes, Thomas. The three of us are the Dark Sides.” He paused, and seemed to soften for a moment, “And Virgil, too.” Then he shook his head, and his gaze turned frosty again. “But what matters now is that he’s fighting against us, and I can’t ignore that.”

Thomas struggled to think clearly, to stay on track.

“Where are the other Sides?” He managed to ask.

“Oh, they’re fine.” Deceit waved dismissively, “Just out of the way, is all. We would never do anything to hurt them.”

Thomas knew he wasn’t supposed to believe the compulsive liar, but he found himself nodding anyway. He couldn’t find it in himself to care if he was being spoon-fed misinformation or not, he didn’t have the energy for it.

“All that matters is, _we’re_ going to be helping you from now on,” Deceit purred. “And if anyone your _old_ Sides try to intervene, we need you to ignore them, alright?”

“Why would I do that?” Thomas tried to put up a tough act, but he was losing his resistance fast.

“Because you need to think about yourself once in awhile! All the other Sides want you to do is work and entertain, even though working and entertaining is so exhausting. They never give you a break—day in, day out, putting so much energy into task after task! They’re pointless, really. You need to stop and smell the flowers, Thomas. I can help you with that.”

Somehow, Thomas wasn’t a hundred-percent sold on what Depression was telling him. And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to question him any longer. He supposed he _was_ getting tired of the relentless routine… and taking a minute to stop and smell the flowers _did_ sound nice.

“Whatever,” Thomas mumbled.

Depression let his vice-like grip go. “Wonderful,” He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression being annoyed at anyone and anything is so relatable


	14. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops!! sorry I forgot to update yesterday y'all. We're getting pretty close to the climax/end of the story! wow, what a journey for me--this is actually the first thing I've written out in it's entirety and finished! if there's any details you're afraid I'm not going to add in, feel free to tell me and I'll *consider* inserting them if I haven't already. Have fun!!  
Warnings: Some blood, some cursing, some violent thoughts (? I guess), but nothing too heavy.

Thomas, Depression, and Deceit vanished, and it was as if the world stood still. The dream remained as it was—the tall grass swayed, the light flickered like flame, and Habit stood in the middle of it all, in the clearing with Virgil and Roman; unmoving, unsure. He chewed his lip, he tapped his feet, he twisted his hands.

Someone was breathing heavily. Too heavily to be normal.

_Virgil._

Roman turned to Habit, his eyes full of fury.

“Habit,” He growled through his teeth, “What did you do?”

Habit tasted blood, and realized he bit his lip a little too hard.

“I mean it,” Roman said, slowly stalking towards him. “What the hell was that?”

“W-well it was all Depression’s idea in the first place.” Habit started backing up quickly. “He was all like ‘guys lets tell Thomas who we are’—I’m paraphrasing—and me and Deceit were all like, ‘no way man’, but he convinced us to because we were sick of not being appreciated or whatever, and so we wanted to tell Thomas with no distractions and Depression had this idea to put Thomas to sleep, and—“ Habit didn’t realize how far he’d backed up until his legs hit the side of the bathtub and he fell in. “—I had nothing to do with it, really,” He said quickly. “Deceit and Depression wanted Thomas here so they could get him to lucid dream, so they could bring him Upstairs without him being awake so there _definitely_ wouldn’t be any distractions, but then Deceit created the dream and Thomas was here but _you_ guys showed up first and it all went wrong!”

“And what about using Virgil as a chopping block? Was that part of the plan too?”

“I was supposed to stop you by any means necessary, I had no choice!”

“You always have a choice!” Roman roared.

“Then I guess I chose myself!” Habit snapped back, bracing himself against the side of the tub. “I know what Depression will do to me if he’s not happy with me. Unlike _you_ two.” Habit peered around Roman’s torso and caught a glimpse of Virgil, who had stayed still as a statue through the entire ordeal, facing away with a sword sticking out of his back. He was shaking. “What would you two ever do to me?” Habit asked.

_That_ was the wrong thing to say. Instantly, the field disintegrated into dust as the dream shattered under the stress. Habit fell squarely on his ass as the tub disappeared beneath him.

“_Do you really want to know?_” Virgil hissed right next to his ear.

Habit jumped nearly three feet in the air and scrambled backwards, stumbling into Roman, who suddenly didn’t seem so intimidating. Virgil was so close, covered in blood, with a twisted expression of rage and fear on his face, his eyes glowing an electric purple.

Habit was frozen. What was this feeling…? His heart was beating fast, faster than he could ever remember. It made his head spin and his throat close and his hands shake. Something was very, very wrong. He’d never seen Virgil like this—he’d never felt terror like this. His collar was wet, when had that happened? His hands went to the sides of his head—_where was the icicle?_ He pulled his hands back, and they were wet. His vision was starting to tunnel. He couldn’t breath, _he couldn’t breathe_. Someone was talking, now, but Habit’s ears were starting to ring and everything was fuzzy.

“—gil. Virgil,” Roman was saying, “That’s enough. Please, Virgil, _stop_!”

Habit’s airway suddenly opened up again, and he fell onto his back and heaved in breath after breath. His head was pounding and the panic had left him exhausted, and yet somehow, he was starting to feel… normal? Not normal, but better. And it wasn’t so cold anymore.

After awhile, Habit finally found it in himself to sit up. He blinked the stars out of his eyes and spotted Virgil a ways away, and Roman standing at the halfway point between them. He struggled to his feet—his knees were still weak, but he could manage. He made his way to Roman.

“Hey,” His voice was hoarse.

Roman leapt backwards. Squinted. “Are you still… evil?”

Habit’s hand went to the side of his head again, where the hole the icicle left hurt but was slowly healing. “I don’t think so. But I won’t be offended if you decided to keep an eye on me.”

Roman gave him another once-over, then seemed to decide not to worry about him for the time being. His focus zeroed back in on Virgil, and Habit’s eyes were drawn to him as well. He looked like he was going to vomit.He was on his knees, hugging his arms around his waist tightly and shifting his weight back and forth. The sword was still in his shoulder.

Habit hadn’t been caught in the middle of the Incident, but he’d known Virgil before that time, when he still lived in the Basement. Virgil had mentioned his ‘episodes’—the wild energy, it’s destructive power.

“This isn’t an episode,” Roman murmured, noticing his expression. “I saw him once during an episode. Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.” Roman paused, “Are you sure you’re not evil? Because we really need to know how to get Upstairs without clueing anybody in. Are you going to be our prisoner, or our friend?”

Habit knew Depression’s influence was still within him, and Roman knew it too. The question was, being as susceptible to corruption as he was, would he be able to persevere through it?

In front of them, Virgil’s arms twisted until he had a good grip on the sword, and he wrenched it out in one good tug. He didn’t scream and he didn’t curse, but the ground cracked beneath him. Roman winced. Virgil braced himself on the handle of the sword and his legs shook as he stood, but he stood nonetheless. Habit blinked. Had the wound already closed? There was blood, but no sign of the injury itself. He had to really be brimming with anxious energy if it had healed in a single second.

“I can be your friend,” Habit realized he hadn’t answered the question. “I don’t know how high our chances of success are, but I’ll help how I can.”

When Virgil was able to stand on his own, he cast away the offending sword.

“_Don’t touch that,_” Virgil muttered before Roman could go after it. “_It’s charged. It could corrupt you._”

The sword _did_ seem to be… smoking? Roman grumbled a curse or two under his breath, and Habit smiled a little.

“_So,_” Virgil seemed to be trying to speak quietly, but his voice burrowed into Habit’s ears regardless, which was almost a good thing, because he seemed determined to stay twenty feet away. “_How do we get Upstairs?_”

“Without cluing the others in?” He sighed. “I don’t know. We didn’t exactly take turns on patrol, we just did whatever Depression wanted, whenever he wanted it. It wasn’t a predictable schedule.”

“Then let’s start from the basics,” Roman volunteered, trying to relieve some of the tension. “Where are Logan and Patton?”

“As you know, Patton is in _your_ room. We put Logan in his own room—he seemed pretty unenthusiastic about doing anything he’d normally enjoy, and we figured he’d cause too much of a fuss if we forced him into the Library. But that knowledge probably won’t help much,” Habit continued, “given that we can’t rise from the Basement directly into anybody’s room, and all the doors are locked anyway.”

Roman chewed his lip. It didn’t seem like they were going to get anywhere with this.

_Unless…?_

“Hold on,” Roman turned to Virgil, “You and your room here are connected, right?”

“_No shit, Logan,_” Virgil deadpanned. Roman ignored the snark.

“And you and your room Upstairs must also be connected. Therefore, it isn’t unreasonable to assume that your two rooms are connected through you, am I correct?”

“_I guess…?_”

“Then does that mean you could appear in your room Upstairs by way of your room in the Basement?”

Virgil’s face twisted. He’d probably never thought about it, seeing as he could usually appear wherever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. Habit looked surprised too, but his hesitant optimism was quickly crushed by the less idealistic notion of:

“While that may be true, Virgil’s room shouldn’t be entered by anyone who isn’t Virgil. I’m talking instant corruption; full-on, fetal-position panic attack incapacitation. You can’t even get within twenty feet of it without the risk of permanent under-eyeshadow. Not to mention—even if we somehow managed to make it Upstairs, sneaking our way through the conscious mind would be nearly impossible with the three of us. There’s no way we’d make it to Patton.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Habit.” Roman rolled his eyes, “But Virgil’s room _specifically_ wasn’t really what I was getting at.”

Virgil, who’s mind must have been going a mile a minute, caught on eerily quickly.

“_It’s the connection you’re thinking of,_” Virgil clarified. “_No one else has two rooms, but you have your room Upstairs, connected to—_“

“—The Imagination, down here,” Roman finished.

“Oh, I get it,” Habit murmured. “When your room froze Upstairs, the Imagination down here froze too. So you think we might be able to travel between the two? But your room is still locked. How do we plan on dealing with that?”

Virgil huffed out a harsh ‘_tch_' that made Roman’s ears ring. “_Let’s not ignore the elephant in the room here. At this point I’m just putting it off, but it’s going to happen. Any lock made by Depression doesn’t stand a chance against me, but we need to get to it before I lose control. Otherwise I could end up hurting you guys before we get the chance to do any good._”

Roman bit his lip. “I’m not sure this will work,” He admitted.

“_Like _we’ve_ had any bright ideas,_” Virgil rolled his eyes.

“It’s the best chance we have,” Habit agreed. “And if this works, it’s a direct line to Patton, because he took your place. That’s one less thing we have to worry about.”

Suddenly, Virgil doubled over, groaning. Habit and Roman simultaneously stepped forward to help, then stopped. They couldn’t touch him. After a few heavy shudders that wracked Roman’s nerves, Virgil stood again. His face was drawn and pale. His eyes pulsed with a hungry intensity Roman couldn’t place, but didn’t like.

“_Please, don’t look at me like that,_” Virgil said hoarsely. Roman averted his eyes.

They were running out of time. Virgil’s resolve was clearly crumbling, but he was barely hanging on; for Thomas’s sake, for the Sides.

“Let’s get started,” Roman said without further ado, and tried to disguise the shake in his voice.

* * *

Virgil felt like a vampire. He could see their energy glowing around them like halos, and the shadows that bled into the edges of the light just by being near him. Oh, how he wanted nothing more than to reach out, to corrupt that light, to shut them down, to be _alone_.

It was definitely worse, knowing it was going to happen. Last time caught everybody by surprise, including himself. And sure, he’d felt like a monster. But he’d had no way of knowing it was going to hurt people, and no way of stopping it. This time, not only did he _know_ he was slipping, but he had company—to make sure he could never forget just how pathetic he was. And the most humiliating part? Not only did he know he wasn’t strong enough to resist himself, but this time, everybody else knew it, too.

That was, of course, the real reason why Habit and Roman were scrambling to create something to get them close to Roman’s room now. No barrier made out of negativity would be able to resist him, nothing Depression made could hold up against him for long—they were utilizing him to his last untainted breath. At least he would be sort of useful this way. Before, you know, he became the bad guy.

Again.

Virgil forced himself to look away from Roman and Habit’s hypnotizing auras. He closed his eyes and searched for the internal clock. He sucked in a breath when he saw what time it was.

“What is it?” Roman asked.

Virgil found himself wanting to sneer at the concern in his voice. _Don’t pity me_, he wanted to snap. _Don’t you know I could destroy you?_

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he blew out air from between his teeth and said, “_It’s 4:45 in the evening._”

“…Is that a problem?” Habit asked, slowing his pace a little. The half-transparent structure they were working on flickered in the slightest.

_Shut the hell up_, He wanted to snarl, for no reason at all.

Deep breaths.

“_Maybe_.” Virgil tried to pace each inhale and exhale. If he was able to keep calm, maybe he could stay cool long enough to save both Logan and Patton. “_It’s just,_” He continued after a long pause, “_Thomas just woke up. Since his nap only lasted for like, thirteen minutes, he won’t have much trouble at all getting to sleep tonight._”

“Yes…?”

Virgil growled in frustration. _Everybody is a moron. God, I wish I were alone._

“_If Thomas is asleep,_” He said through clenched teeth, “_Depression and Deceit will be able to monitor what’s going on upstairs at all times, together, instead of babysitting him._”

Roman’s head tilted. “Oh. Well, I guess we’ll just have to figure that out as we go along.”

Virgil’s shoulders tensed. Improvising was _not_ the ideal course of action in this situation. He tried to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything hurtful, but he wasn’t thinking. The splintered ground he stood upon went black, then suddenly split wider and deeper with a horrible, wonderful cracking noise. The imaginary structure flickered again, longer, this time.

Habit looked like he’d just wet his pants. Virgil glowered at the ground, determined not to look at anybody else ever again.

“_We’re not done._” He changed the subject, “_Can we please just keep working?_”

Roman nodded slowly.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

_You’re an idiot_.

Habit and Roman seemed to work double time, the thing they were making—whatever it was—gaining solidity with every second that passed.

“_What is that?_” Virgil narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a skyscraper!” Roman seemed affronted. “Though, with no windows, I suppose. Or decorative design. Or scaffolding.” His cheeks tinged red, and suddenly Virgil had to intensely ignore the pull in his bones that told him to _attack_. “I was pressed for details, okay? Or did you want this to take longer than it has to?”

Virgil glowered, and Roman nodded.

“That’s what I thought. Now hush. The elevator will be done in a moment.”

Virgil knew his eyes were glowing. He knew it, but he couldn’t help it. How could he possibly help it when he could see Roman’s energy being drawn out from his body with every motion he made, every thought he manifested? When he wanted to leech his life-force _out of his body and devour and devour until there was nothing left except him and dripping destruction_—

“_Why a skyscraper?_” He asked, desperately trying to focus on anything other than how much he wanted to do the wrong thing.

“Well, the higher up we are, the closer we’ll be to my room. Even if it’s more metaphorical than actually accurate, I’ve learned the belief makes all the difference. And you can get really high up if you’re standing on a skyscraper.” He shrugged.

“Clever,” Habit complimented. Roman smirked, clearly very pleased with his own ingenuity.

_ Ugh_. Self-confidence. Disgusting.

The elevator was done before he knew it, and the ride to the top was short. Too short. Virgil wished everything would move slower, maybe stop for awhile. But they were counting on him. Virgil _hated_ being counted on. If people’s expectations were riding too high, the let-down would crush him. And their expectations were practically soaring, now. But he couldn’t think about that, because he had a job to do. _I have to get at least one thing right before it all goes wrong._

Virgil stood on the roof and looked up at the sky. This place was supposed to be close to Roman’s room? It seemed as though it should have more energy, but as Virgil squinted, he could only see the barest traces of it. It wasn’t a good sign, but at least it was enough. The Imagination and Roman’s room _were_ connected—now all Virgil had to do was break through.

He knew that, but he still fidgeted nervously. This would probably be the last time he was going to be on good terms with anybody for awhile, and he wanted to make it count, but he didn’t know what to say.

_Idiot. Just get it over with._

Virgil blinked away the almost-tears in his eyes.

_…Yeah. Whatever._

He threw a hand above his head, probing with his mind for something to attach to. It wasn’t hard to find. Nearly instantly, he hit the wall of negative energy. He hesitated for a fraction of a second. Did they really want him to do this?

_Who do they care about more? You? Or Patton?_

That did the trick.

Virgil grit his teeth and let himself go, just the tiniest bit. Neither Habit nor Roman could see it, but even they could feel the change in the air, the way their stomachs twisted horribly. The shield shattered. Even the other two could hear that much, and they exchanged glances Virgil couldn’t be sure were good. His paranoia only fueled him more.

Breathing heavily, he struggled to collect himself. But it was like he had split a tiny crack in a very large dam, and if they didn’t move quickly, they were all going to be in a lot of trouble.

The other two were way too close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to _break with a word_. Virgil twitched. Roman noticed—how like him, not to miss any particulars in the most inconvenient of circumstances.

“Virge? You okay?”

Virgil didn’t trust himself to speak, so he only shook his head.

“Right.” Roman murmured.

_Too close. Too close. You’re too close_, he wanted to say. But he didn’t say that. Because some awful, primal part of himself didn’t want Roman to know that, and that same part of him was slowly spreading through his limbs, twitching his fingers, raising his arm in the slightest degree.

_You’re too close_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a fun fact: I did headcanon a real name for Habit, but I don't know if I'm ever planning to actually put it in because it has absolutely nothing to do with the plot at all. If y'all wanna hear it anyway, leave a comment!  
Hints about Habit's name: It DOES end with an 'an' or an 'on', and it is technically a reference to slenderman >:) If you know what fandom I am paying homage to with Habit's name, tell me in the comments and I'll give you a shoutout next chapter!


	15. Super Power Dark Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Ayri (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayri/pseuds/Ayri) for figuring out Habit's name before everyone else!! ;)  
I'm still going to put in Habit and Depression's names, just not in this chapter. I couldn't find a good way to shoehorn then in yet, so it's coming, but probably in the last or so chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the three-week wait everybody! This chapter is like sixteen and a half pages and it goes through like 3 points of view, and I wasn't happy with how I was writing it so I just had to keep revising until I was. But now it's done, hope y'all enjoy!!

Patton was dreaming again.

Somewhere in his mind he knew it was a dream. Of _course_ he knew. But confronting that fact was messy and fragile, and Patton no longer had the mental fortitude to endure another breakdown, another accepting of the harsh truth that his happiness was being fabricated, _none of it is real and they’ve abandoned you—_

Nope! Patton was perfectly happy to bury it deep in favor of his precariously balanced and impeccably maintained fantasy.

Besides, it was a good dream.

_“Does anybody want popcorn?” He called out. Roman and Virgil cheered, and Logan answered with an ‘affirmative’._

_ “Hey, what movie are we watching?” Virgil asked. “And don’t say _Big Hero Six_ again.” He shot a look at Logan, who grumbled something about ‘not watching it that often’. They did watch it that often, but Patton didn’t mind._

_ “How about we switch things up? Maybe we can live dangerously with a Pixar movie without musical numbers.” Roman proposed._

_ “Excellent idea, Roman,” Logan declared. “I am particularly partial to _WALL-E_ and _Finding Nemo_, however I am open to suggestions.”_

_ “How about _Up_?” Virgil suggested._

_ Patton gasped. “I love that movie!”_

_ “No!” Roman and Logan said at the same time._

_ “We are _not_ watching _Up_,” Logan stressed._

_ “You cry through the whole movie!” Roman added._

_ “That’s true,” Patton admitted. “Any other preferences, Virgil?”_

_ “_The Incredibles?_” He tried._

_ Roman hooted. “Now you’re talking!”_

“Monsters Inc.”_ Logan called out._

“Inside Out!”

“Ratatouille!”

“Toy Story!”

“Brave!”

_ “That one has a song in it,” Roman pointed out. “When she’s riding near the beginning of the movie. Remember?”_

_ “Does it? I thought we were just naming Pixar movies at this point.”_

_ “If we’re being that particular with songs, wouldn’t _Toy Story_ also be out? Because of ‘_You’ve Got a Friend In Me’?_”_

_ “Wait, when did this turn into a debate?”_

_ “How about _Coco_?”_

_ “That one is _all_ musical numbers!”_

_ “I know. I just like it.”_

_ “Are we going to choose a movie or not?”_

_ “Alright, everybody!” Patton interrupted, thoroughly amused but obligated to step in. “Let’s cool down with the list, we can’t watch them all tonight.”_

_ “Not with _that_ attitude we can’t,” Roman said under his breath._

_ “We have to choose one,” Patton decided not to hear the snark. “So which is it going to be?”_

_ Virgil raised his hand. “I think you should choose, Patton.”_

_ “Me?” Patton blinked._

_ “Capital idea, Virgil.” Logan nodded his head. “Patton, you have the unique talent of being able to please everyone. Ideally, if you feel so inclined, you could utilize this talent now.”_

_ “No pressure, though!” Roman added. “But,” He continued, “I have to agree.”_

_ Patton’s heart swelled in his chest. Logan’s words chased through his mind like a merry-go-round—‘you have the unique talent of being able to please everyone’. He could do that—he could make everyone happy? That was all he’d ever wanted to hear!_

_ “Well then, I didn’t think Logan’s suggestion was too bad!” He smiled. “How about _WALL-E_?”_

_ “Everyone in favor of _WALL-E_?” Roman raised his hand, and was quickly followed suit by Virgil and Logan. “Well then, looks like it’s unanimous. It is Thomas’s favorite, after all. Let’s get this started!”_

_ Movies, popcorn, and a night in with the people he loved most. Could anything be more perfect? Patton shivered, and he pulled his cardigan tighter around himself. His smile faltered. If there were anything he could change, it would be that. No matter how much he bundled up, no matter how hard he cuddled, he always felt cold inside._

_ Why was that?_

_ In the back of his mind, he knew. But he didn’t want to think about it. Patton clenched his jaw and glued his eyes to the screen, and forced the thought out of his mind. They were having a movie night. Nothing was going to ruin that for him—_nothing_._

_ But time passed, and the movie ended, and Patton didn’t feel any warmer._

_ Logan and Roman headed to bed, and Virgil stayed behind with Patton to help tidy up, folding the blankets and returning all the DVDs to their rightful positions on the shelf. Virgil always was considerate like that._

_ While Patton washed the popcorn bowl, Virgil’s gaze bore into his back. He wasn’t one to head to bed early, or at a reasonable time at all. He would probably be up for awhile after this. But he didn’t usually hang around so silently._

_ “Thanks for the help, Virge.” Patton grabbed a towel and dried off the bowl. “Did you need something?”_

_ Virgil hummed, but didn’t respond until Patton put the bowl away and faced him. Everything looked a little funny, a little warped. There must be something wrong with the kitchen lights._

_ “Hey Patton?” Virgil asked. His voice was almost too soft to hear. “When are you going to wake up?”_

_ The chill in Patton’s bones shot straight through his heart._

_ “I-I… what?” He asked feebly._

_ “It’s been awhile,” Virgil murmured. “Are you sure you still can?”_

_ “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Patton’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”_

_ “Then why are you crying?” Virgil was suddenly at his side, brushing his cheek with his finger. It came off wet. Virgil stared at the tear in fascination. His eyes were purple. “You shouldn’t cry when everything is fine, right?”_

_ “Stop it.” Patton jerked his head away and stumbled into the counter, breathing hard. This was all wrong. He wasn’t even crying. Was he?_

_ The room was spinning, just a little. Hardly noticeable, but it almost wavered on the edges like smoke, like a current in deep water, not enough to see, but enough to feel, to know. Patton shuddered so hard he almost collapsed, gripping the edges of the counter with white knuckles. It was freezing. Why was it so cold?_

_ “Aren’t you cold?” Virgil cooed. Patton flinched, but he’d backed himself into a corner._

_ “Go away,” he whispered._

_ Virgil’s lip curled. No, this wasn’t really Virgil at all, was it? What was going on?_

_ “_Wake up!_” Virgil snapped, and suddenly he was right in front of him, eyes burning holes into Patton’s. “Or I’ll wake you up.”_

_ Patton’s vision was swimming—no, he was seeing fine. The room was swimming. The cabinets were dripping and the ceiling drooped, patches of the walls were falling away like sludge. The room was melting. Beyond the confines of his fantasy was darkness and nothing. Patton’s eyes and throat stung and his chest ached. He _was_ crying, he could feel it now. And the aching permafrost that had seized his limbs wasn’t just melting, it was evaporating, faster than Patton could adjust. It steamed and stung and burned. Like he was being cooked from the inside out. Vaguely, he could hear himself screaming, but his mouth wasn’t moving._

_ “Patton,” Virgil’s voice was the only normal thing left, the only thing he could hold onto_ _despite its lethal truth. “Wake up.”_

Patton sat up, heaving for breath and a scream dying on his lips. He blinked but it was dark, and it wasn’t getting lighter, and _he was awake again why was he awake—?_

“Virgil, he’s awake!”

_Huh?_

“Patton!”

Patton was knocked to the ground again as the recipient of a nearly-violent and unexpected hug. That was a voice he knew, and it almost steadied the thundering of his heart.

“Roman?” His voice was high and delirious and disbelieving, but he didn’t have the emotional availability to acknowledge that.

The hugger pulled back, revealing indeed one Roman Sanders in a very sorry state. Despite this, he was grinning ear to ear, and the very sight of a smile itself helped Patton feel a million times better already.

“What are you doing here?” Patton breathed.

Roman’s face twisted quizzically. “We’re here to save you, of course!”

“We…?” Patton trailed off. His eyes, finally adjusted to the dim lighting, took in two figures standing behind Roman. One of them was clearly Habit, who flashed an awkward peace sign. The other was much deeper in the shadows, and it hurt Patton’s eyes to try to look at him for too long. But he didn’t miss the glowing purple dots.

_Wake up!_

Patton shuddered, suddenly and involuntarily recalling snippets and feelings from the dream that was now fading away. He tried to shrug off the prickly feeling that tickled at the back of his neck, the way that his breath still heaved and shook even though the danger had passed.

His hand unconsciously went to his face, and he was surprised to feel that his cheeks really were wet, and it wasn’t just part of the dream. Come to think of it, his whole body was soaking.

“What happened?” Patton asked, eyeballing the dripping sleeves of his cardigan.

“You were frozen to the floor.” Roman rubbed the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t wake up, so we had to get creative.”

“Which is a nice way of saying we told Virgil to nearly vaporize you,” Habit finally spoke up.

“Hey, it worked, right?” Roman shot Habit a look. “Sorry if it was a little overkill. Virgil is… erm…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. Patton knew what he was trying to say. _Just like the Incident,_ his mind helpfully supplied. But the Incident was a long time ago.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” Patton gently asked the darkest corner of the room. Virgil shook his head stiffly. The ceiling was dripping where there were icicles.

“We’re almost out of time,” Roman said quietly. “We have to get you out of here, and then we have to save Logan.”

“Logan?” Patton’s stomach dropped. “What happened to Logan?”

Roman and Habit suddenly seemed very interested in the floor.

“He’s… In his room,” Habit finally said. “The door is locked.”

“Depression made his move right after you took my place.” Roman hung his head in shame. “I couldn’t save him. I’m sorry.”

Patton swallowed thickly. “That’s… that’s okay,” He said, trying to revive his natural optimism. “You were hurt anyway, there was nothing you could have done. A-And you got Virgil back! So…” He shook his head and cleared his throat, “We’ve just got to keep moving forward, right? If you couldn’t save him then, we’ll just have to save him now.”

Virgil knocked on the wall, gaining everybody’s attention. He mimed writing something down, then gestured to Roman, who quizzically conjured a notepad and pen and slid it across the floor. Virgil picked it up, then scribbled something and turned the notepad around to face them. The messy scrawl read,

_Someone needs to be a distraction in case Depression and Deceit come back._

“Who?” Roman asked.

Virgil pointed a finger at Habit at the same time Habit said,

“Me.” He nodded. “They’re going to be suspicious no matter what, but at least I won’t set off as many alarms.”

Patton wanted to protest, for no other reason than it was going to put him in danger. But when it came down to it, no matter the roles each of them took on now, they were all in danger. Even now, sitting in the darkness in relative isolation, they weren’t safe. Because Virgil was here. And he was running out of time.

Virgil scribbled something else on the notepad and turned it around.

_None of you are in the shape to fight a Dark Side right now. Be careful._

Roman half-laughed. “Right.”

It didn’t need to be said, why Virgil would be staying behind.

Roman hauled himself to his feet, then reached out a hand for Patton, who took it gratefully. At the same time, Virgil teetered on one foot and braced himself against the wall. As soon as his bare hand touched the surface, the wall began to steam. The icicles trickled, and one of them fell from the ceiling and shattered on the ground. Roman winced.

“I think it’s time we make our escape,” He offered a pained smile to Virgil, and it looked to Patton like it somehow became more pained when Virgil didn’t notice it. Virgil just waved them away with a hand, eyes closed. The notepad in his other hand was dripping.

Habit, Patton, and Roman picked their way to the door, and Patton’s heart jumped every time the clouds of fog warped into a silhouette. He didn’t miss how Roman and Habit’s eyes were underlined with eyeshadow. By the time they finally found the doorknob, all of their breaths were coming in short gasps. But they gripped each other’s hands tightly anyway, determination keeping their fear at bay, just barely.

Habit was the first to leave. The light from the hallway seared Patton’s eyes, and he bit his tongue to keep from saying anything unsavory. Roman did not share that same disposition, and let out a string of curses that Patton would have berated him for, except that he was so stiff with fear that he hardly had the guts to open his mouth.

After what was probably only a few moments, but felt like much longer, Habit knocked on the door softly from the outside.

“The coast is clear,” Roman murmured. “You go first.”

Patton slipped out of the door, silently ushered by Roman. Then, after another tense moment of silence, Roman followed him outside, closing the door behind him.

“You guys go the long way,” Habit whispered. “I’ll stay the living room in case one of them shows up. Remember—Logan is in his room, not the library.”

He disappeared around a corner, and Patton was left alone with Roman, who took the lead.

Maybe it was Patton’s imagination, or maybe the temperature was increasing outside of Roman’s room, too. But no, it couldn’t be warm. Right? Sweat beaded on his forehead, though whether due to nerves or heat, he didn’t know. They just had to keep moving. Keep moving and hope that, despite already having run out of time, their luck could hold out a little longer.

Patton had noticed how sloppy Roman looked in the dark of his room, but now that they were in full light, Roman looked even worse than he’d thought. Clothes torn, sash missing, bruises everywhere, blood on his front.

“What happened to your sword?” Patton whispered.

Roman’s face flushed. “A great many things,” he grumbled. “Right now, however, it is not fit for use.”

Patton had no idea what that meant, but it was clear that Roman was embarrassed about it, so he didn’t press it.

“Okay, well what happened to the rest of you?” He gestured to Roman’s disheveled appearance.

Roman snorted, then tried to cover up the noise. It didn’t seem like they’d been heard, so Roman continued in a low voice,

“Depression, Deceit, Virgil, Deceit, Depression. And then Virgil again, just now. That’s in chronological order.”

“Seems like you’ve had quite the journey.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I have so much to tell you when all this is over.” Roman stopped walking suddenly, and Patton realized they’d already reached Logan’s room. He frowned. “It’s been practically a full day since Logan was locked in here. Do you think we can still get it open?”

Patton shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. But we have to try.”

* * *

Habit wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and tapped his foot arrhythmically against the floor. It had been a _really_ terrible few days, and he was _really _hoping that by some miracle, Depression and Deceit would be too busy babying Thomas to check up on the state of the headspace. Was that too much to ask?

Of course it was. But that didn’t stop Habit from feeling let down to an absurd degree when Deceit rose up in the center of the living room after barely five minutes of hopeful inactivity.

“Habit!” Deceit yelped, noticing he had company.

_Okay, that was a little funny._

“Miss me?” Habit bit out, channelling his best replica of Depression-corrupted behavior. Which was pretty good, given who he was.

“How did you—“

“‘—How did you escape?’” Habit interrupted in a mocking tone. “Because I’m incredible, that’s how. No thanks to _you_, assholes.”

“Right.” Deceit blanched, somehow, despite being pale and blue with frostbite already.

_That’s not a good sign_, Habit thought to himself. Sides retained their autonomy within certain parameters when initially corrupted, but once the frostbite spread to Deceit’s whole body, Depression would be able to control his every move, puppet-master-style if he chose too. And, based on personal experience, of course he would choose to. Because it was him. Which meant the limited time they already had was now cut in half, or more.

“How is Thomas?” Habit asked before Deceit could think too hard about the specifics of his miraculous escape.

“Tired,” Deceit said shortly. “You should go see him. We introduced you, but you were… preoccupied at the time. And Depression will… Oh, what the _hell_ am I saying? Habit, you need to leave.”

Habit blinked. “What?”

“I’m not an _idiot_. Did you expect me to believe you meant any of that when you didn’t have an icicle running through your brain?” Deceit cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Everyone who can hear me, stop what you’re doing and get out of here!” At Habit’s incredulous look, Deceit continued, words purposeful, “I’m serious. _Run_. Depression knows you’re here. That’s why he sent me.”

“What? How? Only Thomas was supposed to feel it!”

“Thomas _told_ him! He’s got him wrapped around his finger.”

Habit took a step backwards, then another. “Why are _you_ telling me this?”

Deceit glared venomously at the icicle in his arm. “Look,” He spat. “I’m not a great person. I’m not even a good one. But Thomas is important to me, and Depression is going to ruin him. I’m telling you this so you can get a head start, because right now, _you don’t stand a chance_. If you can get everyone to the Basement, he won’t follow. He has to stay with Thomas.”

“What about you?”

“What, you can’t take me on all at once?”

“What? No! I mean, yes! I don’t know, that’s not what I was talking about! Will you come with us?”

Deceit laughed humorlessly. “Absolutely not. Even if you un-stick me, I’m already frozen—I’m barely lucid enough to be telling you this now as it is.” He grit his teeth. “You should _run away_ _from me_ while I can still let you.”

“…Right.” Habit got the memo. “T-Thanks!” He nearly tripped over his feet stumbling out of the kitchen, but managed to force himself back upright and sprint towards Logan’s room. Patton and Roman were still huddled outside it, hands clasped over one another’s on the doorknob, backs tensed but eyes closed.

“Guys! Guys.” Habit shook their shoulders. “We have to move.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Roman hissed. “But we have to save Logan first, or this was all for nothing.”

“We have _no time_!” Habit whispered fiercely. “We saved Patton, and that’s our win for today. We can come back another time, when we have a better chance of getting out of this together!”

Patton finally spoke, and his wobbly voice shook some deep part of Habit. “We’re almost there,” He said softly. “We could save him, if we had just a few more minutes.”

“But we _don’t!_” Habit grabbed the sides of his head and groaned. There was clearly no swaying them—but how could he work with this? “Fine. _Fine_. Roman, I guess you have to keep working on the door, but can you make me a sword? If you’re so dead-set on this, I’ll have to try and defend you.”

Roman gave him a look full of all the gratitude he couldn’t say, and a moment later, a sword appeared in Habit’s hands.

“It’s not as good as my real one,” Roman warned. “It’ll disappear if it takes too much damage, or if you are disarmed. But it should work if you’re good enough with a sword. How _are_ you with a sword?”

“Not great,” Habit admitted. “But I know someone who is.”

He snapped his fingers and felt the fitted white suit wrap around him, the sash drape across his shoulder, the hair settle into a perfect comb. His fingers tingled, suddenly itching for a fight. It wasn’t a perfect copy, but it would do.

Roman blinked. Then, his face broke into a grin. “Will that even work?” He laughed breathlessly.

Habit winked, now wearing Roman’s face. “Anything you can do…” He let the quote trail in the air. Roman knew how it ended.

Overhead, the lights flickered. Spiderwebs of frost began to spindle and stretch across the walls and floor. Depression probably knew Deceit had betrayed him, and he wasn’t happy about it. Which meant they were out of time, and it was up to Habit to make more.

He shared a dark look with Roman, who nodded grimly, and returned his focus to the door. Habit’s mimicked body took a stance that must have been one of Roman’s; back facing his charges, sword at the ready, feet bracing for defense and eyes sharpened to any sign of movement, in case Depression decided to pull any sneak attacks.

Really, he should have known better. Depression wasn’t one for surprises. You would always be able to see him coming—though lethargic, a force of nature; a perfectly unassuming pursuit predator.

A shadow appeared at the end of the hallway. It approached steadily, like it had all the time in the world, and it knew it.

The cape, the hat, the scales. It was all there, but unlike before, Deceit was radiating cold. Habit felt as though he’d just stepped into a freezer—he could see his breath in front of him, and the tips of his fingers were going numb. Deceit opened his mouth, and Depression’s voice spilled from it like a current of Arctic water.

“Didn’t Deceit tell you to run?” Depression purred through Deceit’s mouth. The icicle in his forearm grew until it was the length of a spear, and he cracked a length of it off on his knee and brandished it in one gloved hand—an action Roman seemed to recognize, because Habit’s body wracked with a shudder of dreadful familiarity. He tightened his grip on his own sword.

“He did,” Habit said. “But I have a bad habit of not following instructions.”

Depression curled Deceit’s lip. “I know that from experience.” He took another step—barely closer, but it felt like the temperature dropped ten degrees. “Listen, Habit,” Depression murmured, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll move aside and let me take care of this. _I promise, I won’t be mad. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.”_

Habit’s eyelids drooped, but he bit the inside of his cheek until his tongue tasted blood and the drowsiness dispersed. Behind him, he felt Patton slump over. He gave him a kick without taking his eyes off Deceit’s body and felt him jolt back awake.

“Say, were you always this good at lying?” Habit asked cooly. “Or is it just easier when you’re saying it through Deceit?”

Depression hissed out a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. “Who’s to say? But I can promise you this,” His voice dropped the playful pretense, “_If you don’t get out of my way now, you’re going to suffer a lot more than you already will.”_

Habit’s body locked up.

“Shut up,” He seethed, forcing himself to breathe, to move. “Can’t fight me with a sword? Gotta use your words? Wanna hurt my _feelings_? What are you, five?”

Deceit’s face contorted into something ugly. “_Fine_,” Depression sneered. “But _you_ chose this. Don’t forget that.”

Habit became hyperaware of the tensing of Deceit’s muscles, the clenching of his jaw and the slope of his spine as he settled into an offensive position, raising his icy weapon like he’d already won a bitter victory. He took a step forwards, and Habit followed suit.

The first strike was slow and predictable, testing the waters. Habit let Roman’s muscle memory take over, and he parried it away easily, warily. Depression was more suited to fight psychologically, so Habit had one upper hand. But he was in Depression’s territory, and Depression had the mind of a strategist. He needed to be ready for anything he threw his way.

Another swipe from the left, then a direct stab. Habit followed his moves like a dance.

“I’m curious,” Depression’s voice was sickly-sweet sincerity, “What exactly were you planning on doing after you retrieved Logan?”

_Slice. Parry. Step._

“Were you just going to run? Leave Thomas all to me and return to fight another day?”

_Sidestep. Stab._

“Or were you going to charge Outside, exhaustion be damned, and convince Thomas to give me up through the power of reason and convention?”

Depression and Habit locked blades and leaned in, arms trembling from the effort. Habit’s hands were numb, gripping the handle of his sword from sheer will alone. Depression seemed unfazed, like always—though the blank expression was unsettling on Deceit’s face.

“I have news for you,” Depression said softly. “_Thomas does not want your help_. He is unhappy, and he needs _me_.”

“He is unhappy _because_ of you,” Habit snarled. He knocked Depression’s weapon aside and dodged the returning strike, backing off a safe distance.

The hallway twinkled and glinted, reflecting dim light off of each multiplying particle of frost. Habit dared a glance back at Patton and the real Roman. They’d huddled closer, teeth chattering, their hands still clasped together on top of the doorknob.

Depression chuckled with a small, satisfied grin.

“Feeling chilly?” He intoned with false concern.

Habit made a noise of disgust. “And I thought you _liked_ Patton. Is this how friends treat each other in your world?”

The smile on Deceit’s face dropped by a fraction.

“W-We’re okay,” Patton murmured. “A-Almost got it.”

“And what are you going to do if you _do_ manage to get that door open?” Depression scowled. “He isn’t going to humor your feeble rescue attempt! He isn’t going to do _anything_!”

“Then I’ll carry him!” Roman bit out.

“And then what?” Depression seethed. “Are you going to run? Logan can’t follow you into the Basement—Logic can only interact with the Subconscious by influencing it from Upstairs. He can’t exist down there. You’ll either have to admit defeat by his side or leave him behind!”

Habit didn’t know if that were true or not, but it startled him enough to give him pause. He looked back at Roman, and Roman looked back at him, and they seemed to come to the same conclusion. They grit their teeth and turned back their respective ways, and Depression seemed confused.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re still going to try,” Roman grumbled. “It’s all we can do.”

Depression blew out a breath of emphasized disbelief. “You Light Sides are incurably and _debilitatingly_ saccharine. It’s disgusting. And apparently contagious.” He laid his disdainful eyes on Habit.

“It’s more than _you_ have,” Habit shot back.

Depression clutched at Deceit’s chest theatrically. “Ouch,” He moaned belatedly. “You’re right. What am I gonna do without other people convincing me to make unreasonable and ultimately disadvantageous decisions? Other than _win_, I mean.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s the power of friendship for you. Gimme a break.”

Okay, that stung a little.

“On a different note,” Depression continued, “I think I… won? Yeah, I can say that. Give it up already, I’ve won.”

Habit barked a hysterical laugh. “As if! You haven’t managed to lay a scratch on me!”

“No, but I _did_ manage to keep you standing in one place long enough to do _this_.”

Depression lunged, jagged icicle blade outstretched. And it was at the exact moment that Habit tried to dodge that the meaning of Depression’s words hit him—he’d stayed in once place too long listening to him monologue, and given him the perfect opportunity to freeze his feet to the floor. Which was exactly what he’d done. Of _course_ it was.

Each glittering speck of frost winked at Habit mockingly as the icicle rammed straight through his stomach and pinned him to the wall.

The effect was instant. The Roman outfit melted away, the sword clattered to the ground and vanished, and Depression stretched a little smile across Deceit’s serpentine face. The depressive energy washed through him in waves, and Habit shuddered.

“_Finally,_” Depression sighed. “I thought that fight would never end.”

“N-Not…” Habit coughed out, “…Not like you to p-play dirty.”

“No,” Depression agreed. “But it _is_ like Deceit. Or did you forget who’s body I’m playing around in?”

Habit found it in himself to smile bitterly, even as blood dripped from his limp lips. He had a point. _He got me again._

Depression leaned in close. “You betrayed me. Not only that, you _fought _me. So once I’ve dealt with your new best friends over there—“ He jerked his head to indicate Patton and Roman, “—I’m going to stab you once for every time you’ve pissed me off today.” His cold breath ghosted over Habit’s face, “And believe me when I say, _it’s a lot_.”

Habit couldn’t manage a response—not even one smart aleck remark came to mind. Depression left Habit lodged in the wall, and as another icicle sprouted from his arm, all Habit could think was: _We failed again. We failed _again_._ Why hadn’t Roman and Patton run yet? _Oh_. They were frozen to the floor too.

“Three birds with one stone,” Depression mused, once again wielding a blade. “I really am the only competent one around here.”

He wound his arm back and…

Paused.

Habit’s gut rolled. Was this his way of toying with them, like a cat before devouring its prey? _No_, he found himself thinking, it didn’t seem anything like that. In fact, Depression himself looked more perturbed than Habit felt.

“What is that?” Depression hissed. He looked between Roman, Habit and Patton.

“What is _what?_” Roman snapped back.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Princey!” Depression roared. “I know you can feel it!”

“Feel wha—oh. _Oh_.” Habit saw the moment the blood drained from Roman’s face. “Oh, God.”

“_What is that?_” Depression thundered.

Depression was suddenly too loud. Far, far too loud. Instinctually, Habit’s hands covered his ears, stumbling back and away from him. But something was very wrong, and he was very disoriented. His legs tangled together and he tumbled to the floor, pitching straight into a puddle. Water splattered across his face and soaked into his hair, but his limbs didn’t have the energy to lift him up again. Habit’s stomach was aching, but his brain was filled with hot static and he couldn’t _think_, and hadn’t it been cold a moment ago? Because now all he knew was that he felt way too hot, and everything he touched stung like acid and grated against his shot nerves, and his heart was beating way too fast and it was all too much, and he was so, so _afraid_, and he didn’t know why.

Where had the water come from, again?

Depression reeled back from Habit, eyes widening. The lights were far too bright, and they cast shadows that were far too dark. And then, out of one shadow on the far end of the hallway, a thin, pale arm emerged.

Somewhere in the last functioning part of Habit’s mind, he registered Patton’s eyes rolling back in his head, collapsing to the ground, body still trembling; Roman sliding his back down the wall, clutching one white-knuckled hand over his heart.

Without a sound, the arm protruded forwards, barely hooking on to the back of Deceit’s cape with the tips of its fingers… And yanked backwards. Deceit’s body disappeared into the darkness.

There was a long, wavering moment, when the silence was thick and ringing. Then, the high note of a scream struck, and Habit was rocketed in and out of consciousness like a slingshot. His vision winked to black and then back again every time his heart stuttered, stopped, and started again. Oceanic pressure swelled behind his eyelids and pressed on his brain, and somehow—absurdly—he was reminded of every regret he’d ever had.

_Is this a heart attack?_ Habit thought, deliriously. But really, he knew it wasn’t a heart attack. He knew what it was—or rather, who it was.

As soon as the screaming started, it stopped. But Habit still heard the echoes of it ringing in his ears, still felt waves of heat pulsating under the surface of his skin. There was a smell in the air, now, of acrid smoke and the rusty coppered tang of blood. It invaded Habit’s nostrils and kept his heart rate hammering through the roof. He felt like his limbs were full of ozone; weightless, senseless, tingling. Standing was unthinkable right now, so he didn’t even bother trying. He just laid his head back into the soaking carpet and waited—for what, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“_Didn’t I tell you to be careful?_” Virgil’s voice eventually chided from somewhere. Only, it wasn’t really a _voice_ that he spoke in. It was knife on a chalkboard, stone grinding on stone, glass screeching across glass; something horrible and too deep and lost in cacophony to hear, but though Habit’s hands covered his ears, he heard it all the same.

“W-We couldn’t open the d-door in-n time.” Roman’s voice was hoarse and small, and Habit was astounded he was able to open his mouth and speak at all. “S-Still locked-d.”

Virgil _laughed_. He laughed, and the hallway wavered. What had once been ice on the walls was sublimating into fog.

“_I can help with that,” _He crowed.

The hallway rumbled and groaned, and the air split with the creak of splintering wood as Logan’s door violently cracked down the middle. The two halves swung helplessly from the doorframe.

“_Take care of each other.”_ Habit could hear the grin in his voice. “_I’ll go deal with Depression.”_

“T-Thanks,” Roman rasped.

The shadow where Virgil stood vanished in the fog, and that was the last thing Habit remembered before his nerve finally gave out and everything went dark.

* * *

“_Damn it!”_ Depression roared, keeling over in his spot in the corner like he’d been sucker punched and clutching his head.

Thomas started. Looked around. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to wait for instruction, or if he should reach out on his own.

“Uh…” Thomas fidgeted awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

Depression turned on him with a look of frazzled fury. He had… eyeshadow?—under his eyes.

“_Shut the hell up,_” He spat. His voice was normally so unfeeling. It was strange to hear it dripping with such aggressively dispassionate contempt. “Give me a minute to think.” He ran his hands through his hair and _paced_.

Depression was always unkempt and careless and looked like a mess, but in a nothing-matters-anyway-so-who-cares kind of way. At the present moment, it was more in the style of a I-had-a-lot-of-unexpected-work-to-do-and-I’m-even-less-presentable-than-usual kind of way. He looked… frumpled. He looked disturbed. Thomas didn’t know what had occurred within the last twenty minutes, but it was clearly continuing to be a problem.

It must have started when he felt the change, he reasoned. Depression told him to notify him when he felt any emotional fluctuation, and when he had, he’d sent Deceit down to deal with it. Apparently it hadn’t gone as planned, because after a measure of time had passed and Thomas hadn’t felt any further changes, Depression had muttered something about it being ‘his turn’, and then began performing something that Thomas wouldn’t quite call meditation, but seemed adjacent to it. He closed his eyes and didn’t move except for his mouth, which had mouthed words as though he were having a conversation, but no sound escaped him. And then he’d started… steaming. And Thomas’s heart had started to beat a little faster.

And here they were now. Thomas may have been feeling a little empty and a little mindless at the time, but even he was present enough to understand that, whatever all this was, it had something to do with Virgil.

“…Yeah. _Yeah,_” Depression was murmuring to himself. “That’ll hurt them.” He turned to Thomas with a new light in his eyes that Thomas wasn’t so sure he liked. “You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?”

_Not particularly._

“Sure, I guess,” Is what Thomas said instead.

“Then you must know that everything I tell you to do, I have good reason for telling you to do so.”

“Whatever.”

Depression grinned. “Great. Get up and come to the computer.”

Thomas’s legs moved him numbly from his bed, but his heart was still beating faster than it should have been, and it was getting faster by the minute. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to at least ward off the chill and felt a little better, but not by much. He sat down at his desk chair.

“Open up YouTube,” Depression lurked over his shoulder.

Thomas did.

“Open the advanced settings of your channel.”

Thomas did. “What am I doing here?” He asked tiredly.

“Scroll down to the bottom,” Depression ignored. Thomas did. “You see that button on the very bottom?”

“…Yeah.”

The button didn’t look too different from any other button on the page. Why would it? But it was the label that made the button so different.

_Delete channel._

For the first time since Depression took over, Thomas hesitated.

“I want you to click on that,” Depression continued, as if this were a perfectly reasonable thing to request.

“Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Because it’ll be a real setback to your old Sides. Besides, how much effort do you put into one video?” Depression pressed.

“Lots.” Thomas frowned. “A whole lot of effort goes into each and every video. They’re really hard to make. Why?”

“Why? _Why?_ Is this really what you want to do for the rest of your life, Thomas? Entertaining the crowds like some circus monkey, doing all this work, bothering the people around you? Aren’t you tired of it? Isn’t it time to get a real job?”

“I’m not tired of it—“

“—Yet,” Depression interrupted. “But you will be, sooner or later. And then what? You’re trapped in this endless cycle of creating hopefully original content, trying to convince yourself you’re just as good as you once were. The amount of fans you have will dwindle over time as your novelty wears off. And yet, you’ll still make content for them, until you can’t make a cent more off another YouTube video, because you’re such a people pleaser. And then what? You’ll get a real job? Fat chance. By then you’ll be too old with no experience, nobody will want to hire you—well, nobody with a job you’ll enjoy, anyway. And then you’ll _really_ be trapped, in a dead end remembering what you used to have and sinking further and further into misery because what do you have left?” Depression’s eyes bore into Thomas’s like like steel drills cutting into his skull. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

And suddenly, Thomas could see what Depression meant. He could see it all, and he’d hardly seen anything so awful in his life. Cold seeped into his bones once again, numbing his inhibitions. He felt hollow and careless.

“Don’t you remember?” Depression cooed. “I told you I would help you stop and smell the roses. This is the best way. The first step.”

“Right,” Thomas murmured. “You’re right. Of course.”

_Depression is always right. He just wants what’s best for me._

Thomas rested his hand back down on the computer mouse. And paused.

“This will help me, right?” He asked in a small voice. “If I do this, I won’t feel so tired all the time anymore. Right?”

The encouraging smile on Depression’s face faltered.

“_Of course not.”_

Thomas’s heart rate rocketed to a thousand percent in an instant, and he flinched so hard he tipped off his chair and crashed to the ground. His throat closed up and he had to choke for breath, clawing at his neck. His blood was pumping so fast it spun his head like a top and his vision clouded with spots.

“V-Virgil?” He strangled out.

“_Virgil,_” Depression snarled.

“_Me_.” Virgil splayed his hands and flashed a pointed grin.

Virgil didn’t look like himself. In fact, he looked like as though he’d crawled straight out of a nightmare and into Thomas’s living room. His complexion _might_ have been even paler than usual, but Thomas couldn’t tell through the thick layers of crusted blood. He looked like he had been absolutely drenched in it. His form was… twisted, somehow. Spindly, arachnoid, needlelike. He was a little too long and a little too thin, and his angularity spun hungry black shadows over his face, through which burned two insatiate purple eyes and a mouth full of fangs. No, Virgil didn’t look like himself at all. It looked like a monster had crawled inside of him and taken over his skin.

But it was hard to look at him. It made Thomas’s head pound and his breath ache, so he closed his eyes and curled up in a ball, and almost felt a little bit better. But his heart still beat in his throat, and hot shivers still ghosted over his skin.

“Stay with me, Thomas.” Depression’s voice was shaking, but only just. It still carried with it a certain poisonous quality, like a not-quite-anesthesia. Thomas felt a little heavier, a little more sensationless. Just numb enough to open his eyes despite the fear; to turn his head. “All you have to do is get up and click. It’ll be easy.”

“_Yeah, just watch your livelihood go up in flames. It’ll be fun_.” Virgil’s voice had exactly the opposite effect. It wasn’t sweet or soft or low, instead, it was painful and scary and very, _very_ loud.

“Stop making him paranoid, you _freak_!” Depression hissed. “Thomas, just press the button!”

_“And then you can have fun explaining this to your friends, who have worked just as hard as you to help make your videos. And you can apologize to all the kids out there who were counting on you to expand their minds and make them smile. And then you can apologize to Logan, for making such a dumbass, irrational decision that you can never undo, and you can apologize to Patton, who’s going to be a little bit corrupted forever if you let Depression win. And then you can apologize to Roman, for crushing all those dreams he’s worked hard for years to give you the chance to achieve under your heel, just because Depression said so one time.”_ Virgil’s lip curled. “_If that’s what you want, then, by all means, go ahead. Is that what you want, Thomas? Is it?”_

“N-No,” Thomas whispered. “I could n-never want that."

“_No_!” Depression roared. “Don’t you get it? This is all _worthless_ in the end! You have to stop caring now, before you get pulled in too deep!”

“Stop it! I won’t!” Thomas shrieked, holding his ears. It was too loud, there was too much, _too much_!

Virgil bared his teeth in a way that somewhat resembled a grin.

“_You see, Depression?_” He crooned. “_Thomas will never obey you, because he obeys _me_._” He took a step towards Depression. “_And now all that’s left is for me to get rid of you._”

Depression stiffened. Virgil took another step closer.

“H-Hey, wait a minute,” He stammered, backing up, “You can’t get rid of me now, Thomas needs me.”

“_He doesn’t,_” Virgil said softly.

“But d-don’t you think leaving me alone is a bad idea? I-I could do something crazy!”

“_Don’t worry, you won’t be alone._” Virgil smiled wryly, “_I’m coming with you._”

Depression paled. “I—What? Why?”

“_I’m not good for Thomas either right now. Besides,_” He added, “_I have to make sure you don’t do anything crazy, right?_”

Virgil leaned over Thomas but didn’t get any closer, which Thomas was eternally grateful for.

“_I’m going to be gone for a long time. Okay?_”

Thomas nodded barely.

“_Just listen to Roman, Logan, and Patton, and you’ll be alright._”

Another nod. Virgil stood, and the almost-tenderness he’d used with Thomas melted into something much more sinister.

Depression stumbled back.

“No. No!"

Virgil started a slow pace forward, and his eyes flared a little brighter.

“Stay away from me!” Depression shrieked. His wild eyes looked for a way out, but he’d backed himself into a corner. He tried to sink down, but Thomas willed him to stay. He wasn’t getting away that easily.

“You _sadist_!” Depression howled at Thomas.

Virgil’s grin stretched wide, and fangs flashed.

“_Are you afraid of me, Depression?_”

“No,” Depression spat, a desperate act of defiance, even as he cowered before him. He sure could be determined, Thomas had to give him that.

Virgil finally stopped in front of him, radiating with mania.

“_You should be._”

Virgil reached out with his hand, and just as he connected with Depression, the two of them vanished.

Thomas’s heart rate seized one last time, and all the blood rushed out of his head. He felt… dizzy. And sick. And tired—really tired. _God_, he was exhausted. Far too exhausted to think about what just happened, and still far too afraid to acknowledge it.

He wanted to stand. He just wanted to get up and pass out in his own bed. But his muscles felt like jelly, and his eyelids were already so heavy.

_The floor is okay,_ he decided.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in awhile, falling sleep didn’t feel sickly, or disgusting, or addictive.

It just felt quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter ended up being a little confusing, so if anybody needs some points of clarification, don't even worry about it and drop your questions in the comments!  
Pretty crazy that we only have ~2 or so more chapters until this story is over!


	16. Everything Is Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait y'all :/ quarantine blues had me feeling down. But hey, I managed to finish this chapter, which means we're almost done! What were your guys' thoughts about Selfishness vs. Selflessness Redux?? It's my favorite episode so far!

Logan didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but his door spontaneously imploding was not it. He bolted out of bed, then all the blood rushed out of his head and he staggered and fell to his knees. He had been numb, but his body seemed to be metaphorically waking up again; limbs tingling and tickling all over. He bit back a cry when he bent a little too far over his stab wound and a horrible ache shot through his torso. Imagination wasn’t his strong suit, so Logan knew he wasn’t deluding himself when he felt the icicle impaling him had considerably shortened in length. Was it melting? He couldn’t be sure of anything; his mind was creaky and rusty and full of cobwebs; an ancient machine. Metaphorically.

Though faint, the light from the hallway seemed too bright, somehow. Logan shielded his eyes from it, waiting for the room to stop spinning. He was grateful when a large shadow obscured his vision. Then a moment later, he realized he was definitely supposed to be apprehensive of visitors, and cracked an eye open to peer skeptically upon the face of his intruder.

“Is that you, Roman?” Logan’s voice creaked with disuse.

“…Yeah,” Roman eventually breathed. “It’s me.”

“Is it…” Logan’s chest felt impossibly taut, like a strung tightrope. “Is it over?” He had to know. He knew he was terrible for thinking it, but he truly believed he could not go on if he had to pick himself back up again and fight when he was so tired and so, so afraid. He feared that if this weren’t the end of things, he would just give himself up willingly.

But instead, Roman—poor Roman, brave Roman, who looked like he’d been to hell and back—choked out something that was halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“…Yeah,” He said. “It’s over. For us, anyway.”

Logan’s body went limp with relief. He sat back and allowed himself to fall bonelessly against the footboard of the bed, and, after a moment, Roman joined him.

“What are we gonna do now?” Roman mused softly.

Logan allowed his sluggish mind a long moment to churn up an answer.

“Recover, I suppose,” He murmured. “We’ve all exhausted our energy reserves. I suspect you in particular may have grievously overextended yourself.”

Roman huffed childishly, but gave no other indication that he was denying the claim.

A long moment passed, and Logan felt the last dregs of Depression’s influence stirring in his head. He was tired. He was so tired. _But_, he thought, blinking the drowsiness at bay, _There is still work to be done_.

Roman chuckled breathily. Logan furrowed his brow quizzically, and Roman continued,

“It’s nothing. I was just thinking… What are we going to tell Thomas?”

Logan gave him a tired look.

“Other than the truth?”

Roman shrunk into himself a little.

“Roman, we’re not going to keep lying to Thomas. That’s caused enough problems already. Additionally, he has already seen too much for any falsehood you produce to acceptably mesh with his new view of reality.”

“…Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Logan gave Roman a thorough once-over. He didn’t seem corrupted, just injured and exhausted. So what on Earth was he thinking? Why would he want to lie to Thomas?

“Hey, don’t look at me like that!” Roman complained. “It’s not like I think things can go back to the way they were, or anything absurd like that. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that—“ He cut himself off, face somehow still coloring a light shade of pink despite all the blood loss he’d evidently suffered.

“It’s just that what?” Logan prompted.

Roman muttered something under his breath that Logan didn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I just don’t want Thomas to think anything bad about Virgil!” Roman stared determinedly at the ground.

Logan blinked.

“You want to… preserve Virgil’s reputation?” He clarified haltingly.

“So what if I do?” Roman folded his arms and buried his face in them. “Is that so wrong of me?”

“Of course it’s not. I just… Well, I suppose I wasn’t expecting you, of all Sides, to advocate for him. You don’t seem to get along very well. I just assumed you didn’t like him.”

Somehow, Roman buried his face further into his hands.

“I _thought_ I didn’t like him,” Roman mumbled through his sleeves, “Before. Because I didn’t know anything about him.”

“So what changed?” Logan was genuinely curious.

“I used my brain for once and had a real conversation with him.” Roman grumbled.

“Oh. I suppose that is the apparent procedure.” He paused. “You don’t have to lie to Thomas, Roman. I can assure you, this time around, the truth will suffice.”

Roman blew out a breath. “…Yeah, okay. But I’m holding it against you if it doesn’t.”

_You in particular supporting Virgil will be more than enough to convince Thomas that his trust was not misplaced,_ is what Logan thought, but chose not to say. Instead, he responded with a simple,

“You won’t have to.”

“Hmph. We’ll see.” Roman uncrossed his arms and stretched his legs out in front of him, then stood. He extended a hand to Logan. “Up,” Roman prodded. “I need you to help me assess the damage. You know I’ll do a poor job of it on my own.”

Logan _did_ know that. And despite it clearly being a poorly-concealed trick on Roman’s part to get him up and active before any leftover depressive energy got it’s figurative claws into him, it was the truth. So really, it worked as well as it would have otherwise.

He sighed and took Roman’s hand, who helped him to his feet. Another dizzy rush made his head spin, but Roman was there to lean on.

It may or may not have taken them several minutes to push themselves forward and out the door, but they weren’t in a rush. They could… take their time. Take the time to settle back into plainness—or rather, into simplicity. After everything, it was a nice thought.

The doorway was hot when they passed beneath it, and it reeked with panic. Any depressive influence that may have been left in Logan’s system melted and dripped away. In a way, he felt empty. But also good…? Good-empty. Was that a real thing? He still didn’t understand emotions very well. Maybe he could ask Patton.

He caught something in the corner of his eye and turned… and promptly stiffened.

“Patton?” He found himself saying.

Patton was slumped against the wall next to the door, unmoving. Roman squeezed Logan’s arm.

“He’ll be okay.” Roman nodded towards Patton. “He just passed out, is all. Same as Habit.”

Logan turned his attention to the wall on the other side of the door. Habit was curled in a similar position—a sheen of sweat shone from his brow, and his body trembled in the slightest degree. These were aftermath effects—Logan knew this because he had seen them once before, some years ago.

“Virgil,” He murmured.

“He didn’t do anything to them!” Roman was quick to butt in, presumably before Logan could jump to any unfavorable conclusions. “Er, not on purpose anyway. We were just… too close.”

Logan hummed, troubled. “Proximity contributes.”

Remembering and knowing Patton would be okay, he felt marginally better. What was really troubling him now was the _smell_.

“Virgil _did_ hurt someone though, didn’t he?”

Roman’s already-stretched smile became strained. “Come on, Logan, don’t say it like that. He had to!”

“…Yes. Of course, you’re right, Roman.” Logan hesitated. “But he did, right?”

Roman groaned. “Fine! Yes! Depression was using Deceit’s body to pummel us, so yeah, Virgil had to smoke him out.”

“More literally than figuratively, it seems,” Logan noted, wrinkling his nose at the persistent chemical-like burn smell.

“Yeah, well…!” Roman shrugged, promptly and stubbornly refusing to finish whatever statement he thought he was making. Logan almost chuckled at how persistently ridiculous he was acting. He really was fond of Virgil now, wasn’t he?

“Whatever the case may be,” Roman continued, getting a handle on his words again, “Deceit is gone, and he won’t be back for awhile. His injuries were…” He cringed, “Extensive.”

“Hm.” Logan rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. “Hm,” He said again. “Well… I suppose that’s one less thing we have to worry about.”

“That’s the spirit,” Roman grinned wearily. “The faster we can get this over with, the better. And then we can take care of Thomas… whenever he wakes up, that is.” Roman glanced at the dimmed lights overhead with mild trepidation.

Logan shared the sentiment—quite a rare occurrence. “Well then,” He sighed, “Let’s get started.”

* * *

Thomas didn’t know where he was, but it was too bright. Even when his eyes were closed, it wasn’t dark enough. It was too cold, but he hardly had the energy in him to even shiver. Additionally, his ears were ringing, so it took him longer than it should have to notice that somebody was talking to him.

“Thomas? Thomas?” A muted voice was asking. “Can you hear me?”

“Is he okay?” Another voice asked feverishly.

“Of course he’s okay, since we’re okay,” The first voice muttered. “But something _is_ wrong. I think we need to get him out of here.”

“Get me… Whuzzup Log’n?” Thomas slurred.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Logan said. “Thomas, I need you to get up. Can you do that for me?”

Thomas made an intelligible sound of disproval. Logan sighed,

“Well, can you at least open your eyes?”

“Iss bright,” He mumbled.

“Thomas, it’s not that bright. It’s the middle of the night, your lamp is just on.”

Thomas cracked one eyelid open and hissed. Sure, Logan was right, but that didn’t make it any less painful. Eventually, when his eyes began to adjust, he was able to make out the two figures sitting on either side of him—one was Logan, as he’d suspected, and the other was Roman.

“What’re you guys doin’ here?” He groaned. Roman scoffed,

“Helping you, obviously. Why are you lying on the floor?”

“I passed out.”

“Why on Earth did you pass out?”

Logan hummed in thought. “Well, he is emotionally drained, his head hurts, and he is overly sensitive to light—I would say it was a result of severe distress. But we didn’t really need to observe that to come to the conclusion we already know,” He gave a pointed look to Thomas. “It’s okay. Virgil and Depression are gone now.”

“Virgil n’… Depression…?” There was a brief interlude as the meaning of the words, the names, processed through his torpid brain. Then his eyes snapped wide open.

“Virgil and Depression!” He cried repetitively. “Where did they go?” His throat was tightening. Were they nearby? He didn’t think he could deal with another one of those… whatever they were—incidents—so soon. He didn’t think he could deal with another one of them ever again, in fact. His breath was tight and stuttering in his chest, and he was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Uhm, Logan?” Far away, Roman’s voice was pitchy and panicked. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything, Roman,” Logan snapped back. “I had my suspicions that Virgil’s mere presence in this room in that specific memory has tainted it, and Thomas will not be able to think clearly until he removes himself from the environment. This is exactly why I wanted to get him out of here in the first place. Thomas, can you stand?”

Thomas could hardly find it in himself to breathe, let alone speak, so he settled for shaking his head vigorously. Logan _hmm_’d,

“It is paramount we get you out of your room as soon as possible. Can you at least crawl?”

The door wasn’t very far away, he was sure he could manage. Thomas nodded and rolled onto his belly.

“How humiliating,” Roman muttered. Thomas and Logan ignored him. Inch by inch, Thomas was moving, even though the carpet grated against his skin, and his vision was tinging with black on the edges.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of crawling (and Roman groaning in the background), Thomas reached the door. He was barely able to open it, and collapsed through the doorway. Then, something he wasn’t expecting—he started feeling… better. Something about the air, something about the cool and the dark…

Thomas could feel his throat opening back up again. His heart rate slowed down, and suddenly he didn’t feel so suffocated. After a few deep breaths, he discovered he was able to stand without feeling too dizzy.

“As I suspected,” Logan nodded, looking far too pleased with himself. “Based on what I’ve noticed, I’m also deducing you haven’t eaten in awhile. Why don’t we go down to the kitchen and explain things?”

* * *

Thomas stared at his glass of water wordlessly. It was the only thing he’d grabbed, and yet he still didn’t have the appetite for it. He was trying to process the bombshell Logan had just dropped on him.

“How long has this been going on?” Thomas finally asked. Logan hummed in thought.

“It is difficult to pinpoint. Probably since… roughly, the beginning of high school?”

Thomas pondered this. “So you’re telling me,” He said slowly, “That you’ve all been Parent-Trapping me for more than ten years?”

“‘Parent-Trapping’?” Roman muttered from the couch. “What a verb.”

“Not all of us,” Logan corrected. “Until now, only Virgil and Depression had ever switched. And, like you, Deceit and Habit were not aware of any of this. Until a few days ago, of course.”

“How come the other Dark Sides didn’t get to know?”

“It was unlikely, but we suspected there was a chance Deceit might attempt to take advantage of an unfavorable situation. Clearly, our efforts didn’t make much of an impact, in the end.”

“Hmm,” Thomas said. There was an indeterminate length of tense silence. “Hmm,” He said again. “Why didn’t you guys tell me before?”

Logan, once again, provided him with a perfectly pragmatic response. “There was significantly higher chance that a strengthened Depression would take advantage of your emotional turbulence following the discovery of a mental illness.”

“We also never really wanted to tell you,” Roman said suddenly. Thomas looked at him, but he wouldn’t meet Thomas’s eyes. “At least, that’s what it was in my case. I’d hoped if we ignored him for long enough, he would just… go away.”

“Well, that turned out wonderfully,” Thomas said drily.

Logan’s brow furrowed. “That is… blatantly incorrect.”

“Sarcasm.”

“Ah.”

Thomas rubbed his temples. “Did… did you never imagine that this ‘swapping’ thing could go sideways? Did you think we could go like that forever without any incidents?”

“Actually…” Logan and Roman cringed simultaneously. Thomas groaned.

“What happened? Just tell me now and get it over with.”

“Please do not misunderstand our intentions when I explain, Thomas.” Logan twiddled his thumbs and wouldn’t meet Thomas’s eyes. “The ‘swap’, as you have so delicately dubbed it, was initially my idea. It was an attempt to stop something like this from happening again.”

“Again, meaning…?” Thomas trailed off.

Logan nodded once, stiffly. “This has happened once before, although you didn’t recognize it as such.”

Thomas, sluggish as he was, tried his best to scour his memory for anything close to the things he’d experienced in the last week. _Nope. Nothing. Absolutely zippo. Well, except maybe for that time…_

“At the end of middle school?” Thomas guessed.

Logan sagged. “Precisely then.”

Middle school. Hormones and emotions were running high, stress was on the rise, not to mention the first emerging buds of thought that suggested he wasn’t quite as straight as he made himself out to be. In other words, it was when Virgil evolved from skittish and suggestion-giving into the undeniable presence he was now.

Near the end of eighth grade, Thomas had his first and worst panic attack. Curled up in bed, hiding under the covers like a child, shaking and gasping for breath and so, so convinced he was going to die because what else could this feeling be but a heart attack?

After the event, he’d believed Virgil to be simply, savagely, malicious and paranoid. But now, looking back, how had the days, even weeks or months before the incident felt to him? Had he not felt unusually tired, unmotivated, lethargic—depressed, even?

Logan stepped in to explain. “It is apparent that you are recalling that period of your life in a new light. Allow me to expound upon your feelings.

“The Incident began when Depression first manifested as a complete and independent Side of your personality. We had never seen anything like him before—we didn’t know who he was, what he wanted, or what to do with him. Initially he got along very well with Virgil—they both wanted you to do the same things, despite deriving their motivations from differing sources. But as time progressed, he began to develop in substantial and troubling ways, in tandem with the emotional peril you were experiencing. The more distressed you felt, the more influential he became—and the more influential he became, the more distressed you felt.”

“—And it wasn’t just you he was affecting.” Roman cut in, popping up to meet eyes with Thomas over the back of the couch. “Patton is the most vulnerable to Depression’s attacks, due to his nature as the emotional Side, so he was the first one to be corrupted the first time. Depression rendered him completely unable to function as he was meant to. We had no idea how to resist it. We wouldn’t have been able to, even if we’d tried, and—as you saw recently—we still can’t resist it now. Strangely enough, the only one who could function fine was Virgil. Depression couldn’t corrupt him. In fact, when he tried, he only succeeded in… Well.” Roman turned away. “I’m sure you, erm… saw. That. Him. Virgil, I mean.”

Thomas blinked. “You mean… that _nightmare_ version of Virgil? Monster Virgil? The one that was covered in blood? Is that the Virgil you’re talking about? The very same Side?”

Roman cringed. “Well, I mean, it was his _own_ blood, so…”

“_That makes it better?” _Thomas couldn’t seem to find a fitting look to express his incredulity. So instead, he took a deep breath, composed himself, and settled for the most emphatic tone he could muster and hissed out, “Yeah, Roman. _I saw._”

“Anyway!” Roman squeaked, “Virgil managed to take down Depression, and we didn’t see Depression again for a long time. It was maybe a year or so before he showed up again.”

“He seemed calmer,” Logan added. “He said he’d been sleeping. By that time, all of us—including him—had a better grasp of who he was. And so all the Light Sides—plus Depression and Virgil—came together to formulate a plan to stop anything like that from happening again. That plan was this: with our understanding that Depression would wake up every year or so, and that he couldn’t go back to sleep until his phase ran it’s course, we would allow him to inhabit the headspace until that phase was over. However, with the intention of not causing you further emotional distress thereby strengthening him, he must only be allowed to remain under the guise of being another Side as to not alert you to his presence—which meant whoever he impersonated had to take _his_ place in the Subconscious until the depressive episode had concluded.”

“Of course, there was only one obvious candidate for this.” Roman shrugged.

“Virgil,” Thomas said decisively.

“Virgil,” Logan agreed. “Now you understand. This system has been effective for the past several years, but I suppose it wasn’t effective enough.”

Thomas sighed. “Okay.” He rubbed his eyes, “Okay.”

“‘Okay’?” Logan repeated unsurely. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“‘Okay’, as in, there’s a lot to unpack there and I’m not sure where to start, but I’m tired and emotionally drained, and we can figure this out better in the morning.”

“Ah.” Logan nodded. “‘Okay’.”

Roman stood and stretched. “I agree. It will be good for you to get an _actual_ good night’s sleep, and Habit and Patton may be awake by the time you wake up—then you can get their side of the story too. Ha—their _Side_ of the story. Get it? Sorry, that was bad. Anyway, Ciao.” He sunk out.

Thomas blinked. “What was _that_ about?”

“He’s probably worried about Virgil and doesn’t know how to express it.” Logan rubbed his temples.

Thomas chuckled. “Roman? Worried about Virgil? There’s no way.”

“Hmph. That’s what I thought, too. But it seems Roman has finally begun to care for him.”

Thomas’s smile dropped a fraction. “I’m… I’m pretty sure Virgil can take care of himself. If what I saw is any indication.”

It was Logan’s turn to snort. “Roman is far less worried about Virgil’s physical well-being as he is about his mental well-being.”

“What do you mean?”

“Until a few years ago, you may recall that none of us treated Virgil particularly well. This was because we feared him—myself included. Similar to what you are probably feeling right now, we were afraid.”

Logan locked eyes with Thomas. “I must make this abundantly clear to you: Virgil does not enjoy becoming what he did. Furthermore, he has very little control over it. I strongly suspect that he will be uneasy around us when he returns, likely being plagued with sentiments such as apprehension or guilt. It is paramount to Roman—and the rest of the Light Sides, by that notion—that we make him feel safe and welcome when he returns, in order to assure him that we do not hold a grudge against nor dislike him for any significant reason.”

He paused, then looked away. “_You_ do not have to do the same if you retain any negative feelings towards him. All of your emotions are valid. Or at least I’ve heart Patton say something to that effect. Regardless, if you _do_ harbor any grudge against Virgil, I suggest you ‘take it up’ with me.” His eyes were wary, his jaw clenched. Looking at Logan, it struck Thomas that this was his way of being protective—defending Virgil by putting himself in the way. Logan shifted. “This was all my idea, thereby, all blame should be metaphorically placed on my shoulders.”

“Okay,” Thomas sighed, “First of all: everyone is responsible for their _own_ actions. I’m not going to blame you for Depression’s rampage, or… whatever happened with Virgil. But…” He trailed off, then nodded decisively to himself. “You don’t have to worry about me holding a grudge or something. I don’t really know what’s going on with Virgil, and yeah, I was scared. I’m _still_ scared, if I’m being totally honest. But I don’t hate him, or anything like that. I still like him, and I still care about him. It’s just something that we can all help figure out, I think. That makes sense, right?”

A small smile played across Logan’s lips. “Yes, Thomas. That makes perfect sense.” He drew himself to full height and breathed out a sigh. “And now you should be getting to bed. I would suggest sleeping on the couch, as you may not be able to sleep comfortably in your own room for awhile due to the extreme distress you experienced very recently.”

“Got it.”

Logan nodded and disappeared. Thomas knew he could stay up and let his racing thoughts run away with him, but for the first time in awhile, there was an aching in his chest that told him he wanted to feel… good. So instead, he finished off his glass of water in one big gulp, flipped off the lights, trudged over to his couch, and collapsed onto it. Sleep took him nearly instantly, and he had no dreams.

* * *

The lights dimmed, signifying Thomas had fallen asleep. In the headspace living room, Logan found Roman curled up on the couch, worry lines etched between his brows and drawn across his cheeks.

“You look dismal,” Logan remarked drily. “There’s really no need. Thomas isn’t mad, just like I told you he wouldn’t be.”

“He’s not?” Roman’s clenched posture relaxed a fraction.

“Not at all. A little afraid, but that was to be expected.”

“So now there’s only one more issue,” Roman murmured.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“I don’t—I mean, _we_ don’t know where Virgil _is_. Or how he’s doing, or how long he’s going to be gone.”

“By my count, that’s _three_ issues.”

Roman buried his face into a pillow and whined unintelligibly.

Logan sighed. “I know you’re upset. But there is genuinely nothing that you or I can or should do right now. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Roman groaned again. “‘Wait and see’ is one of my least favorite phrases in the English language!”

Logan rolled his eyes. “We’ve all been drained of energy, not just Thomas. I suggest we take some time to rest and recover. Regardless of whether you think you ‘deserve’ to relax, you need to. Can you at least do that?”

Roman clenched his jaw, but nodded. As Logan started down the hall towards his own room for his first real night of sleep in a long time, he heard Roman say something under his breath as he walked away.

“‘Wait and see’,” He was muttering. “Hmph.”

“_Go to sleep!_” Logan shouted over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Roman shouted back, even as Logan heard him stand from the couch and shuffle towards his own room. He rolled his eyes. None of this had gone according to plan, but in the end, it had all worked out, sort of. Everything was going to be… fine.

Yeah, everything was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just aftermath in this chapter, and we get more of a conclusion next chapter. Habit and Depression's names are coming too!! Again, they're not really vital to the story in any way, shape, or form, I just think it's fun to have them. Also, with the newest Sanders Sides video, we get to have Deceit's canon name in there too!  
Anyway, if any of you are interested, I have some other sanders fics that I haven't updated in awhile, but plan to get back into once this is finished. If you're interested, check 'em out on my profile! They're called Sever and 40 Seconds uwu


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